LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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L U C I L E 



LU CI L E. 



BY 



OWEN MEEEDITH,^^*©^-^' 

AUTHOR OF " THE WANDERER," " CLTTEMKESTRA," ETC 



' Why, let the stricken deer go -weep. 

The hart ^ingalled play ; 
For some must watch, while Boine must sleep: 
Thus runs the world away." 

Hahi.et. 



B O STON: 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO. 

1873. 



r^ 



^9s-^ 



.L 7 



author's editio: 



Cam b bidq e 1 

'BX.OH, BiGELOW, AND COMPAWT, 
FKIKTEES to THK UjflVKBSITT. 



DEDICATION, 



TO MY FATHER. 

1 DEDICATE to you a work, whicli is submitted 
to the public with a diffidence and hesitation pro- 
portioned to the novelty of the effort it represents. 
For in this poem I have abandoned those forma 
of verse with which I had most familiarized my 
thoughts, and have endeavoured to follow a path on 
which I could discover no footprints before me, 
either to guide or to warn. 

There is a moment of profound discouragement 
which succeeds to prolonged effort; when, the 
labour which has become a habit having ceased, 
we miss the sustaining sense of its companionship, 
and stand, with a feeling of strangeness and em- 
barrassment, before the abrupt and naked result. 
As regards myself, in the present instance, the 
force of all such sensations is increased by the cir- 
cumstances to which I have referred. And in thia 
moment of discouragement, and doubt, my heart 
instinctively turns to you, from whom it has so 
often sought, from whom it has never failed to re- 
ceive, support. 

I do not inscribe to you this book because it 
contains anything that is worthy of the beloved 
and honoured name with which I thus seek to asso- 
ciate it : nor yet because I would avail myself of 
a vulgar pretext to display in public an affection 
that is best honoured by the silence which it ren- 
ders Sacred. 



VI DEDICATION. 

FeelingG only such as those with which, in days 
when ther^ existed for me no critic less gentle 
than yourself, I brought to you my childish manu- 
Bcripts ; feelings only such as those which have, in 
later years, associated with your heart all that has 
moved or occupied my own — lead me once more 
to seek assurance from the grasp of that hand 
which has hitherto been my guide and comfort 
through the life I owe to you. 

And as in childhood, when existence had no toil 
beyond the day's simple lesson, no ambition be- 
yond the neighbouring approval of the night, 1 
brought to you the morning's task for the evening's 
sanction, so now I bring to you this self-appointed 
task- work of matm-er years; less confident, indeed, 
of your approval, but not loss confident of your 
love ; and anxious only to realize your presence 
between myself and the public, and to mingle with 
those seveiar voices to whose final sentence I sub- 
mit my work the beiijved and gracious accents cf 
your own, 

OWEN MEUEDITH. 
Vienna, M&rcb, \ <)$(>. 



LUCILE. 



PART L CANTO L 



LETTER FROM THE COMTESSK BE NEVER3 TO 
LORD ALFRED VARGRAVE. 

' I HEAR from Bigorre you are there. I am told 
' You are going to marry Mss Darcy. Of old, 

* So long smce you may have forgotten it now, 

' (When we parted as friends, soon mere strangers 

to grow,) 
'Your last words recorded a pledge — what you 

will — 
' A promise — the time is now come to fulfil. 
The letters I ask you, .my lord, to return, 

* I desire to receive from your hand. You discern 

* My reasons, wliich, therefore, I need not explain. 

* The distance co Serchon is short. I remain 

* A month in these mountains. Miss Darcy, per- 

chance, 
' Will forego one brief page from the sunmier ro- 
mance 

* Of her courtship, and spare you one day from 

your place 

* At her feet, in the light of her fair English face. 
' I desire nothing more, and I trust you will feel 

* I desu'e nothing much. 

* Your friend always, 

* LuciLK.* 



LUCILE. IPAKT L 



Now in May Fair, of course, — in the fair month 

of May — 
When all things in abundance make London so 

gay; 

When street-strawberries are sold, piled in pottles 

like sheaves, 
And young ladies are sold for the strawberry- 
leaves ; 
When cards, invitations, and three-corner'd notes 
Fly about like white butterflies — gay little motes 
In the sunbeam of Fashion ; and even Blue-Books 
Take a heavy-wing'd flight, and grow busy as 

rooks ; 
And the postman (that Genius, indiflerent abd 

stern. 
Who shakes out even-handed to all, from his urn, 
Those lots which so often decide if our day 
Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay) 
Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or 

other 
Than Cadmus himself put together, to bother 
The heads of Hellenes, — I say, in the season 
Of fair May in May Fair, there can be no reason 
Why, when calmly absorbing your dry-toast and 

butter, 
Tour nerves should be suddenly thrown In a flutter 
At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd 
In a woman's handwriting, containing, half-guess'd, 
An odour of violets faint as the spring. 
And coquettishly sealed with a small signet-ring. 

But in autumn, the season of sombre reflection, 
When a damp day, at breakfast, begins with de 

jection j 
Far from London and Paris, and ill at one's ease, 
Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees, 
Where a call from the doctor, a stroll to the bath. 



Caj«in> 1.1 LUCILE. 9 

A ride through the hills on a hack like a lath, 
A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation, 
Are all a man finds for his day's occupation, 
The whole case, believe me, is totally changed. 
And a letter may alter the plans we arranged 
Over-night, for the slaughter of Time — a wild 

beast, 
Which, though classified yet by no naturalist, 
Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare, 
A ad more mischievous too, than the Lynx or tlia 

Bear. 



1 marvel less, therefore, that, having already 

Torn open this note, with a hand most unsteady, 

Lord Alfred now dash'd it away with a cry 

Of angry surprise. If a shell from the sky 

On the board where he then sat at breakfast haci 

bounded 
And burst, he could scarcely have look'd more 

astounded, 
Or more speedily spurn'd it. 

The month is September ; 
Time, morning; the scene at Bigorre; (pray re- 
member 
These facts, gentle reader, because I intend 
To fling all the unities by at the end.) 
He walk'd to the window. The morning was chill : 
The brown woods were crisp'd in the cold on the 

The sole thing abroad in the streets was the wind : 
And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts 'sj 

his mind. 
Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho' teasing 
Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleas- 

ing : 
And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it, 
To himself more than once (vex'd in soul) sigh'd 

' Confound it I ' 



10 LUCILE. [PABT I 

IV. 

What the thoughts may have been which this bad 

interjection 
Disclosed, I must leave to the reader's detection ; 
For whatever they were, they were burst in upon, 
Aa the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin 

John. 

Cousin John. 

A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool 1 

LoKD Alfred. 

Who? 
Cousin John. 

The man who has anything better to do ; 
And yet so far forgets himself, so far degrades 
His position as Man, to this worst of all trades, 
Which even a well-brought-up ape were above, 
To travel about with a woman in love, — 
Unless she 's in love with himself. 

Lord Alfred. 

Indeed I why 
Are you here then, dear Jack ? 

Cousin John. 

Can't you guess it ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Not I 
Cousin John. 

Because I have nothing that 's better to do. 

I had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you, 

On the whole (I must own), than be bored by my 

self 
That perverse, imperturbable, golden -hair'd elf — 
Your Will-o'-the-Avisp — that has led you and me 
Such a dance through these hills — 



CjLNTO I.] LUCILK. )J 

LoBO Alfred. 

Who, Matilda ? 

Cousin Johk. 

Yes! she, 
Of course 1 who but she could contrive so to keep 
One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling asleep 
For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four ? 

Lord Alfred. 

What 's the matter ? 

Cousin John. 

Why, she is — a matter, the more 
I consider about it, the more it demands 
An attention it does not deserve ; and expands 
Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline. 
When possess'd by a fair face and saucy Eighteen, 
Is entitled to take in this very small star, 
Already too crowded, as / think, by far. 
You read Malthus and Sadler ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Of course. 

Cousin John. 

To what use, 
When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous 

abuse 
Of one mere human creature's legitimate space 
In this world ? Mars, Apollo, Virorum 1 the case 
"Wholly passes my patience. 

Lord Alfred. 

My own is worse tried 
Cousin John. 
Yours, Alfred ? 



12 LUCILE. [Part L 

LoKD Alfkkd. 
Read this, if you doubt, and decide 
Cousin John {reading the letter). 

* / hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told 

* You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old — * 
What is this ? 

Lord Alfred. 
Read it on to the end, and you '11 know 
Cousin John {continues reading). 

' When we 2)arted, your last words recorded a vow — 

* What you will ' . . . 

Hang it ! this smells all over, I sweai, 
Of adventures and violets. Was it your hair 
You promised a lock of? 

Lord Alfred. 

Read on. You '11 discern 

Cousin John {continues). 

* TTiose letters I ask you, my lord, to return.* . . . 
Humph 1 . . . Letters 1 . . . the matter is worse 

than I guess'd. 
I have my misgivings — 

Lord Alfred. 

Well, read out the rest, 
And advise. 

Cousin John. 
Eh? . . . Where was I? . . . 
{continues) 

* Miss Darcy perchanct 
' Will forego one brief page from the summer romance 

* Of her courtship.* . . . 



Canto I.] LUCILE. 13 

Egad 1 a romance, for my part., 
I 'd forego every page of, and not break my heart I 

Lord Alfred. 
Continuo ! 

Cousin John {reading). 

And spare you one day from your place 
* At her feet: ... 

Pray forgive me the passing grimace. 
I wish you had my place ! 

(reads) 

' / trust you will feel 
^ I desire nothing much. Your friend* . . . 

Bless me I * Lucile * f 
The Comtesse de Nevers ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Yes. 

Cousin John. 

What will you 'Jo ? 
Lord Alfred. 
You ask me just what I would rather ask you. 

Cousin John. 
Yon can't go. 

Lord Alfred. 

I must. 
Cousin John. 

And Matilda ? 
Lord Alfred. 

Oh, that 



You must manage 1 



14 LUCILE. [Part 1 

Cousin John. 

Must I ? I decline it, though, flat* 
In an hour the horses will be at the door, 
And Matilda is now in her habit. Before 
I have finished my breakfast, of course I receive 
A message for ^ dear Cousin John!' ... I must 

leave 
At the jeweller's the bracelet which you broke last 

night; 
I must call for the music. ' Dear Alfred is right : 
' The black shawl looks best : will I change it ? of 

course 

* I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse. 

* Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert knows 

what ; 
*Will I see the dog-doctor?* Hang Beau! 1 will 
not. 

Lord Alfred. 

Tush, tush! this is serious. 

Cousin John. 

It is. 

Lord Alfred. 



Yo'j must think 



Very well, 



Cousin John. 
What excuse will you make tho ? 
Lord Alfred. 

Oh, teU 
Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits. Jack 1 . . . 

the deuce I 
Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's 

use V 
Excuses are clothes which, when ask'd unawares, 



Canto I] lucile. J 5 

Good Breeding to naked Necessity spares. 
You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt. 

CoustN John. 

My dear fellow, 
Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello. 

LoKD Alfred. 
You joke. 

Cousin John. 
I am serious. Why go to Scrchon ? 
Lord Alfred. 

Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear 

John. 
Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire, 
Before I extinguish forever the fire 
Of youth and romance, in whose shadowy light 
Hope whisper'd her first fairy tales, to excite 
The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that dawn 
Of my days where the twilights of life were first 

drawn 
By the rosy, reluctant auroras of Love : 
In short, from the dead Past the grave-stone to 

move ; 
Of the years long departed forever to take 
One last look, one final farewell ; to awake 
The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy, 
And once more be, though but for an hour, Jack — 

a boy ! 

Cousin John. 

You had better go hang yourself. 

Lord Alfred. ' 

No I were it but 
To make sure that the Past fi*om the Fixture ia 
shut. 



16 LUCILE. [Pakt t 

It were wortli the step back. Do you think WG 

should live 
With the living so lightly, and learn to survive 
That wild moment m which to the grave and its 

gloom 
We consigned our heart's best, if the doors of the 

tomb 
Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps for 

our sake ? 
If the dead could return, or the corpses awake ? 

Cousin John. 

Nonsense 1 nonsense 1 

Lord Alfred. 

Not wholly. The man who gets up 
A fill'd guest from the banquet, and drains off his 

cup, 
Sees the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness, 

goes 
"Well contented to bed, and enjoys its repose. 
But he who hath supp'd at the tables of kings, 
And yet starved in the sight of luxurious things ; 
Who hath watcli'd the wine flow, by liimself bui 

half tasted, 
Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tune ; who 

hath wasted 
One part of life's grand possibilities ; — friend. 
That man will bear with him, be sure, to the end, 
A blighted experience, a rancour within : 
You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin. 

Cousin John. 

I see you remember that cynical story 
Of the wicked old profligate fellow — a hoary 
Lothario, whom dymg, the priest by his bed 
(Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led, 
And observing, with no small amount of surprise, 
Kcsigaatiou and cakn in the old sinner's eyes) 



GakTQ 1 j LUCILE. 17 

Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind : 
' Well, . . . no,' . . . says Lothario, ' I think not. 

I find, 
* On reviewing my life, wliich in most things was 

pleasant, 
I never neglected, when once it was present, 
' An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, 
' 1 have nought to regret * ; . . . and so, smiling, 

his soul 
Took its flight from this world. 

LoKD Alfred. 

Well, Regret or Remorse, 
Which is best ? 

Cousin John. 

Why, Regret. 

Lord Alfred. 

No ; Remorse, Jack, of course ; 
For the one is related, be sure, to the other. 
Regret is a spiteful old maid : but her brother. 
Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet 
Has been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, 
hang Regret I 

Cousin John. 

Bref! you mean, then, to go ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Bref! I do. 

Cousin John. 

One word . . . stay 
Are you really in love with Matilda ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Love, eh . 
What a question 1 Of course. 



18 LUCILE. [Pabt 1 

Cousin John. 

Were you really In love 
With Madame de Nevers? 

Lord Alfred. 



NeTer really. 



What ; Lucile ? No, by Jore, 



Cousin John. 
She 's pretty ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Decidedly so. 
At least, so she was, some ten smnmers ago. 
As pale as an evening in autumn — with hair 
Neither black, nor yet brown, but that tinge whict 

the air 
Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone 
Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting 

sun. 
Eyes — the wistful gazelle's ; the fine foot of a fairy ; 
And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, — white and 

airy; 
A voice soft and sweet as a tune that one knows, 
Something in her there was set you thinking of 

those 
Strange backgrounds of Kaphael . . . that hectic 

and deep 
Brief twilight in which southern suns fall asleep. 

Cousin John. 
Coquette ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Not at all. 'T was her one fault. Not she ' 
I tad loved her the better, had she less loved me. 
The heart of a man 's like that delicate woed 
Which requires to be trampled on, boldly indeed, 



Canto L] LUCILE. 19 

Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract. 
'T is a simile, trust me, u not new, exact. 

Cousin John. 

Women change so. 

Lord Alfred. 

Of course. 

Cousin John. 

And, unless rumor errs, 
I believe that, last year, the Comtesse de Nevers * 
Was at Baden the rage — held an absolute court 
Of devoted adorers, and really made sport 
Of her subjects. 

Lord Alfred. 

Indeed ! 

Cousin John. 

When she broke off with ^cis 
EUr engagement, her heart did not break with it r 

Lord Alfred. 

Pooh I 
Pray would you have had her dress always in 

black, 
And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack ? 
Besides, 't was my fault the engagement was broken. 



0, Shakespeare ! how coulcUt thou ask ' What 's in a name ! 

'T is the devil 's in it, when a bard has to frame 

English rhymes for alliance with names that are French : 

And in these rhymes of mine, well I know that I trench 

All too far on that license which critics refuse, 

With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse. 

Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a hue, 

'Twixt my British-bom verse and my French heroine, 

Since, however auspiciously wedded they be, 

There is many a pair that yet cannot agree, 

Tour forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, 

Whom necessity, not incUnation, unites. 



20 LUCILE. frAM I 

Cousin Johw 

[ dare say. How was that ? 

Lord Alfred. 

O, the tale is soon spoken. 
She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What 

next ? 
She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was 

vex'd. 
I was vex'd that she was so. She siilk'd. So did I. 
If I ask'd her to sin^, she look'd ready to cry. 
I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd. 
At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd. 
She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. 
I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd 

treason. 
In short, my dear fellow, 't was time, as you see. 
Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'T was 

she 
By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. 
She released me. I llnger'd. I lingered, she thought, 
With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, 
The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse, 
And declare myself uncomprehended. And so 
We parted. The rest of the story you know. 

Cousin John. 

No, indeed. 

Lord Alfred. 

Well, we parted. Of course we could not 
Continue to meet, as before, in one spot. 
You conceive it was awkward ? Even Don Fer* 

dinando 
Can do, you remember, no more than he can do. 
I think that I acted exceedingly well. 
Considering the time when this rupture befel. 
For Paris was charming just then. It deranged 



Canto L] lucile. 21 

All my plans for tlie winter. I ask'd to be clian.'re-i — 
Wrote for Naples, then vacant — obtain'd it — and 

so 
Joined my new post at once ; but scarce reach'd it, 

when lo ! 
My first news from Paris informs me Lucile 
Is ill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. 
I fly back. I find her recover'd, but yet 
Looking pale. I am seized with a contrite regret. 
I ask to renew the engagement. 

CousLN John. 

And she ? 

LoKD Alfred. 

Reflects, but declines. We part, swearing to be 
Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thin^' 
We each keep our letters. ... a portrait ... a 

ring . . . 
With a pledge to return them whenever the one 
Or the other shall call for them back. 

Cousin John. 

Pray go on. 
Lord Alfred. 

My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin 
On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we com 
To supply the grim deficit found in our days, 
When Love leaves them bankrupt. I preach. She 

obeys. 
She goes out in the world ] takes to dancing once 

more — 
A pleasuie she rarely indulged in before. 
I go back to my post, and collect (I must own 
'T is a taste I had never before, my dear John) 
Antiques and small Elzevirs. lieigho I now, Jack; 
You know all 



22 LUCILE. [Part L 

Cousin John {aft&r a pause). 

You are really resolved to go back ? 

LoBD Alfred. 

Eh, where? 

Cousm John. 

To that worst of all places — the past 
You remember Lot's wife ? 

Lord Alfred. 

*T was a promise when last 
We parted. My honour is pledged to it. 

Cousin John. 

Well, 
What is it you wish me to do ? 

Lord Alfred. 

You must tell 
Matilda, I meant to have call'd — to leave word — 
To explain — but the time was so pressing — 

Cousin John. 

My lord, 
Your lordship's obedient 1 I really can't do . . . 

Lord Alfred. 

You wish then to break off my marriage ? 

Cousm John. 

No, no 
But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take 
These letters. 

Lord Alfred. 

Not see ? would you have me, thon, break 
A promise my honour is pledged to ? 



Canto L] L^CILE. S8 

Cousin John (humming) . 

* Of, off, 
* And away / said the stranger ' . . . 

Lord Alfred. 

Oh, good ! oh, you scoff I 

Cousin John. 

At what, my dear Alfred ? 

Lord Alfred. 

At all things 1 

Cousin John. 

Indeed '' 

Lord Alfred. 

Tes ! I see that your heart is as dry as a reed. 
X"ou *re a hlasi unprincipled rouL I see 
iTou have no feeling left in you, even for me ! 
At honour you jest ; you are cold as a stone 
To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have 

none; 
You have lost faith in all things. You carry a 

blight 
About with you everywhere. Yes, at the sight 
Of such callous indifference who could be calm ? 
I must leave you at once, Jack, or else the last 

balm 
That Is left me in Gilead you '11 turn into gaU, 
Heartless, cold, unconcern'd . . . 

Cousin John. 

Have you done ? Is that all V 
Well, then, listen to me ! I presume when you 

made 
Up your mind to propose to Miss Darcy, yov 

weish'd 



24 LUCILE. [Pakt I 

All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains, ' 
Ere you finally settled the point. What remains 
But to stick to your choice ? You want money : 

't is here. 
A settled position : 't is yours. A career : 
You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich, 
Whom all men wiU envy you. Why must you itch 
To be running away on the eve of all this 
To a woman whom never for once did you miss 
All these years since you left her? Who knows 

what may hap ? 
This letter — to me — is a palpable trap. 
The woman has changed since you knew her. 

Perchance 
She yet seeks to renew her youth's broken ro- 
mance. 
When women begin to feel youth and their beauty 
Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty 
To let nothing else slip away unsecured 
Which these, while they lasted, might once have 

procured. 
Lucile 's a coquette to the end of her fingers, 
I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the wish 

lingers 
To recall the once reckless, indliTerent lover 
To the feet he has left : let intrigue now recover 
What truth could not keep. 'T were a vengeance, 

no doubt — 
A triumph ; — but why must you bring it about ? 
You are risking the substance of all that you 

schemed 
To obtain; and for what? some mad dream you 

have dream'd ! 

LoKD Alfrkd. 

But there 's nothing to risk. You exaggerate. 

Jack. 
You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am 

back. 



Caitlo L] luclle. 28 

CojSLN John. 

Ay, but liow ? . . . discontented, unsettled, upset, 
Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret ; 
Preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough 
To make your Fiancee break off in a huff. 
Three days do you say ? But in three days who 

knows 
What may happen ? I don't, nor do you, I sup» 



Of all the good things in this good world arouiJ 

us, 
The one most abundantly furnish'd and found us, 
A.nd which, for that reason, we least care about. 
And can best spare our friends, is good counsel, no 

doubt 
But advice, when 't is sought from a friend (tho' 

civility 
May forbid to avow it), means mere liability 
In the bill we already have drawn on Remorse, 
Which we deem that a true friend is bound to en- 
dorse. 
A mere lecture on debt from that friend is a bore. 
Thus, the better his cousin's advice was, the more 
Alfred Vargrave with angry resentment opposed 

it. 
And, having the worst of the contest, he closed it 
With so firm a resolve his bad ground to maintain. 
That, sadly perceiving resistance was vain, 
And argument fruitless, the amiable Jack 
Came to terms, and assisted his cousin to pack 
A slender valise (the one small condescension 
Which his final remonstrance obtain'd) whose di- 
mension 
Excluded large outfits; and, cursing his stars, he 
Shook hands with his friend and return'd to Misa 
Darcy. 



LUCILK. [Paet 1 



Lord Alfred, when last to the -window he turn*d, 
Ere he lock'd up and quitted his chamber, discern'd 
Matilda ride by, with her cheek beaming bright 
In what Virgil has called * Youth's purpurea! hght ' 
(I like the expression, and can't find a better). 
He sigh'd as he look'd at her. Did he regret her ? 
In her habit and hat, with her glad golden hair. 
As airy and blithe as a blithe bird in air. 
And her arch rosy lips, and her eager blue eyes, 
With their little impertinent look of surprise. 
And her round youthful figure, and fair neck, below 
The dark drooping feather, as radiant as snow, — 
I can only declare, that if I had the -chance 
Of passing three days in the exquisite glance 
Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now 

petted 
That fine English mare, I should much have re- 
gretted 
"VVTiatever might lose me one little half-hour 
Of a pastime so pleasant, when once in my power. 
For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milky 

Way 
Could turn into a woman, 't would look, I dare say, 
Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that day. 



But, whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh 
With which Alfred Vargrave now watch'd her rid< 

I can only affirm that, in watching her ride. 

As he turn'd from the window, he certainly sigh'd. 



CanTD n.] LUCILE. i7 



CANTO U. 



I. 

LETTER FROM LORD ALFRED VARGRA.VE TO 

THE COMTESSE DE NEVER9. 

* Bigoire, Tuesday. 

* Your note, Madam, reacli'd me to-day, at Bi- 

gorre, 

* And commands (need I add) my obedience. 

Before 

* The night I shall be at Serchon — where a line, 

* If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine, 

* Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive 

* My respects. 

* Yours sincerely, 

*A. Vargrave. 

* I leave 
In an hour.' 



In an hour from the time he wrote this, 
Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss. 
Gave the rein to his steed and his thouglits, and 

pursued, 
In pursuing his course through the blue solitude, 
The reflections that journey gave rise to. 

And here, 
Dear Reader, (for when was a reader not dear ?) 
Let pie pause to describe you my hero. 



WeaU 
Have seen in the world, at an opera or ball. 
Or read of in books, or heard sung of in songs. 
Or encounter'd, perchance, 'mid the gay idle 
thronga 



28 LUCiLE. [Pakt L 

Wliom at Baden or Homburg, at evcuing, one sees, 
Lounging over green tables, or under green trees, 
In the sound of the music, the light of the flambeaux, 
Two kinds of Don Juan. 

They are Arcades ambo 
The one is Italian or French : a point, rather 
Disputed : I think, tho', Moliere was his father. 
For the rest, of his family nothing is known. 
Of his sponsors, 'tis said that a croupier was one, 
The other an actress at Paris : perchance 
His life 's a libretto, his birth a romance. 
But his name is Don Juan. Of that there *s no 

question. 
He boasts a bold beauty. He owns a digestion 
^s triplex et rohur, for lobsters and oysters ; 
The darUng of grisettes, the terror of cloisters. 
He is insolent, noisy, extravagant, vain. 
On the whole, he is vulgar. But one thing is plain, 
The women don't think him so. Would you know 

why ? 
His name is Don Juan. 

We '11 let him pass by 
Because he 's a quarrelsome fellow. 



The other 
Some persons have taken, I hear, for his brother. 
But this, I believe, is an error. 

Indeed, 
If, though but for a moment, you '11 look with due 

heed 
In the face of this so-call'd relation, you '11 see 
That he springs from a different family tree. 
In fact he is English. One cannot but know it ; 
His features, his manners, his conduct, all show it. 
lie belongs to a northern noblity, and 
His sire was a Lovelace. 

I think that George Sand 
Must have met him and known him when, after the 

Peace. 



CAjrro 11.] LUCILE. 29 

He made the j^and tour of the Continent. Greece, 
Spain, Italy, Egypt, he ran them all through 
While the down on his lip and his chin was yet 

new. 
His classical reading is great : he can quote 
Horace, Juvenal, Ovid, and Martial by rote. 
He has read Metaphysics . . . Spinoza and Kant ; 
And Theology too : I have heard him descant 
Upon Basil and Jerome. Antiquities, art, 
He is fond of He knows the old masters by heart, 
And his taste is refined. I must own in this place 
He is scarcely good-looking ; and yet in his face 
There is something that makes you gaze at it again. 
You single him out from a room full of men, 
And feel curious to know him. There 's that in his 

look 
Which draws you to read in it, as in a book. 
Of some cabalist, character'd curiously o'er 
With an incomprehensible legended lore. 
Relentless, and patient, and resolute, cold, 
Unimpassion'd, and callous, and silently bold, 
Whatever affords him pursuit is pursued 
As a wild beast pursues, and devours his food 
In the forest, impell'd by the instinct of prey. 
You can scarcely despise, the' abhor him you 

may; 
For you feel, with a thrill, as you track through the 

world 
The course of his destiny, snakily curl'd 
In the roses, or branding with thunder the heath, 
Some bad angel hath pass'd there. The Angel of 

Death, 
Or Destruction, it may be. 

So, leave hun. 



There are, 
Here and there, in Life's great lazaretto, though 
rare, 



30 LUCILE. [P L 

Certain men whose disease of the heart is more 

deep, 
Though less deadly. Yet something there is makes 

me weep 
When I strive to describe them. I search, hut in 

vain, 
For the words that should render the portraiture 

plain. 
Nine cycles with Dante my muse hath descended ; 
In the hollows of hell I have gather'd and blended 
All hues of the pale, pulsing flamelight ; and yet 
The picture is vague as a virgin's regret. 
And designs but a shadow, that wavers, and goes, 
And returns, on the twilight of thought. 

Such are those 
Whom my verse would in vain comprehend. Alas 1 

they 
Comprehend not themselves. 

They are drawn off one way 
By their passions, and drawn back again by their 

heart ; 
A vague but immortal regret, with its dart. 
Pursues them forever ; and drives them with 

pain 
From themselves to the world, from the world back 

again 
To themselves. 

Having fail'd at the springs they seek first 
To satiate wholly the undying thirst 
Of a deathless desii-e, they would quench it forever 
In the dregs of a sensual opiate ; — endeavour 
To trample out that which is brightest in them, 
The star that is set on their soul's diadem, 
Because it has fail'd to enkindle in others 
One spark from the glory which nothing quite 

smothers : 
For they cannot all stifle the spirit. At night 
They reel home from the orgy beneath the wan 

light 



Canto U.] lucile, 31 

Of the star that reproachfully leads them. The 

world 
In darkness and dream and oblivion is furl'd ; 
Their destiny stirs and awakes in them then. 
While their cheek with the wine is yet flushing, 

these men 
Arise, and the serpent and ape at their feet 
Crouch and huddle. Their hair creeps. Their 

brow gathers heat 
From some seraph that sadly regards them. They 

start, 
Like a god from the clay, into beauty and art. 
What breaks from the lip with such passionate 

strain ? 
Some wild song of the revel, re-echoed again ? 
Nay, hark ! 't is the psalm of the soul, as her 

wings 
Are unfurl'd : — 't is the Bard, ' t is no drunkard, 

that sings 1 
Heaven opens. Earth yawns. Hell delivers its 

prey. 
The beast and false prophet slink, baffled, away. 
The world stands afar off to wonder or scoff — 
The chariots of Israel, the horsemen thereof ! 
The spirit ascends through the heavenly portal, 
And the mantle, descending, hath cover'd the 

mortal I 

The man is a profligate sensualist, 
The man's life a reckless debauch, you insist : 
Let the man's life be all that you will, I appeal 
The man's work is inmiortal — behold it and 

kneel 1 
But the life of the man ? Can you tell where it 

lies ? 
In the effort to sink, or the power to rise ? 
Can you guess what the thirst is the man quenche* 

_ thus? 
Lq vain ! shall we tell what he fails to teU us ? 



32 LUCILE. [Part 1 



To this class my hero remotely belongs — 

A class, doubtless, more common in life than is 

songs. 
If genius he had not, at least he had much 
That to genius is kindred : one feverish touch 
Of that hunger which urges forever the soul 
To some infinite, distant, impossible ^oal : 
The horseleech's daughter that cries m the heart 
With her ceaseless ^ Give^ give!' and sits pining 

apart 
From the purpose of all things. 



The age is gone o'er 
When a man may in all things be all. We have 

more 
Painters, poets, musicians, and artists, no doubt, 
Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to; but 

out 
Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when 
Will a new Leonardo arise on our ken ? 
He is gone with the age which begat him. Our 

own 
[s too vast and too complex for one man alone 
To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close 
In the palm of his hand. There were giants in 

those 
Irreclaimable days ; but in these days of ours 
In dividing the work we distribute the powers. 
Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees 

more 
Than the 'live giant's eyesight avail'd to explore ; 
And in life's lengtheu'd alphabet what used to be 
To our sires x y z is to us A b c. 
A Varini is roasted alive for his pains, 
But a Bacon comes after, and picks up his brains. 



CaITTO lf.J lUCILE. 88 

A Bruno is augrily seized by the throttle 

And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle, 

Till a More or Lavater step into his place, 

Then the world turns,, and makes an adrtdrmg 

grimace. 
Once the men were so great and so few, they 

appear, 
Through a distant Olympian atmosphere, 
Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. 
Now the men are so many and small, disengage 
One man from the million to mark him, next mO' 

ment 
Tte crowd sweeps him hurriedly out of your com- 
ment ; 
And since we seek vainly (to praise in our songs) 
'Mid our fellows the size which to heroes be- 
longs, 
We take the whole age for a hero, in want 
Of a better ; and still, in its favour, descant 
On the strength and the beauty which, failing to 

find 
In any one man, we ascribe to mankind. 



Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who achieve 
So little because of the much they conceive. 
A redundantly sensuous nature, each pore 
Kver patent to beauty, had yet left him sore 
"With a sense of impossible power. He saw 
Too keenly the void 'twixt the absolute iaw 
And the partial attainment. He knock'd at each 

one 
Of the doorways of life, and alnded in none, 
[lis course by each star that would cross it was set, 
And whatever he did he was sure to regret. 
That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old, 
Which to one appear'd argent, to one appeared 

gold, 



84 LUCILE. [Part L 

To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy maigent, 
Appear'd in one moment both golden and argent. 
The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one, 
May hope to achieve it before life be done ; 
But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes, 
Only reaps from the hopes which around him he 

sov/s 
A harvest of barren regrets. And the worm 
That crawls on in the dust to the definite term 
Of its creeping existence, and sees nothing more 
Than the path it pursues till its creeping be o'er, 
In its limited vision, is happier far 
Than the Half-Sage, whose course, fix'd by no 

friendly star, 
Is by each star distracted in turn, and who knows 
Each will still be as distant wherever he goes. 



Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and unstable, 
Indecisive yet keen, Alfred Vargrave seem'd able 
To dazzle, but not to illumine, mankind. 
A vigorous, various, versatile mind ; 
A character wavering, fitful, uncertain, 
As the shadow that shakes o'er a luminous curtain, 
Vague and flitting, but on it for ever Impressing 
The shape of some substance at which you stand 

guessing : 
When yoii said, • All is worthless and weak here, 

behold I 
Into sight on a sudden there seem'd to unfold 
Great outlines of strenuous truth in the man ; 
When you said. ' This is genius,' the outHnes grcMf 

wan. 
And his life, tho' in all things so gifted and skill'd, 
Was, at best, but a promise which nothing fulfill'd. 



In the budding of youth, ere wild wind^ can de- 
flower 



CaMTO nj LUCILE. 35 

The shut leaves of man's life, round the germ of 

man's power 
Yet folded, bis life had been earnest. Alas ! 
In that life one occasion, one moment, there was 
When all that was earnest in him might have been 
Unclosed into manhood's imperial, serene 
Dominion of permanent power. But it found him 
Too soon ; ere the weight of the light lite around 

him 
Had been weigh'd at its worth ; when his nature 

was still 
The delicate toy of too pliant a will 
The boisterous play of the world to resist, 
Or the frost of the world's wintry wisdom. 

He miss'd 
That occasion, too rath in its advent. 

Since then, 
He had made it a law. In his commerce with men, 
That intensity in him which only left sore 
The heart it disturb'd to repel and ignore. 

And thus, as some Prince by his subjects deposed. 
Whose strength he, by seeking to crush it, dis- 
closed. 
In i-esigning the power he lack'd power to support. 
Turns his back upon courts, with a sneer at th« 

court, 
In his converse this man for self-comfort appeal'd 
To a cynic denial of all he conceal'd 
In the instincts and feelings belied by his words. 
VV^'ords, however, are things : and the man wha 

accords 
To his language the license to outrage his soul, 
Is controll'd by the words he disdains to control. 
And, therefore, he seem'd, in the deeds of each 

The light code proclaim'd on his lips to obey ; 
And, the slave of each whim, follow'd wilfully 
aught 



S6 LUCILB. [Pakt L 

That perchance fool'd the fancy, or flatter'd the 

thought. 
Yet, indeed, deep within him, the spirits of truth, 
Vast, vague aspirations, the powers of his youth, 
Lived and breathed, and made moan — stirr'd 

themselves — strove to start 
Into deeds — tho' deposed, in that Hades, his heart. 
Like those antique Theogonies ruin'd and hurl'd 
Under clefts of the hills, which, convulsing the 

world, 
Heav'd, in earthquake, their heads the rent cav- 
erns above, 
To trouble at times in the light court of Jove 
All its frivolous gods, with an undefined awe, 
Of wrong'd rebel powers that own'd not their law. 
Yes I still in his nature was more than enough 
(Altho' self-disputed) of strong English stuff, 
Which, had he been forced to some claim di&- 

allow'd 
By the world, to push firmly his path thro' that 

crowd 
Amidst which he now lounged, would have welded 

in one 
Earnest purpose the powers now conscious of none, 
Because squander'd on many. And therefore, if 

born 
To some lowlier rank (from the world's languid 

scorn 
Secured by the world's stern resistance), where 

strife, 
Strife and toil, and not pleasure, gave purpose tc 

life, 
He, no doubt, before this, would have lived to 

attain 
Not eminence only, but worth. So, again. 
Had he been of his own house the fii-st-born, each 

gift 
Of a mind many-gifted had gone to uplift 
A great name by a name's greatest uses. 



CaktO II.] LUCILK. S7 

But tnere 
He stood isolated, opposed, as it were, 
To life's great realities ; part of no plan ; 
And if ever a nobler and happier man 
He might hope to become, that alone could be 

when 
With all that is real in life and in men 
AVhat was real in him should have been recon- 
ciled ; 
^Vhen each influence now from his being exiled 
Should have seized on his being, combined with 

his nature, 
And form'd, as by fusion, a new human creature : 
As when those airy elements viewless to sight 
(The amalgam of which, if our science be right, 
The germ of this populous planet doth fold) 
Unite in the glass of the chemist, behold 1 
Where a void seem'd before, there a substance 

appears. 
From the fusion of forces whence issued the 
spheres 1 



As it was, his chief fault was an unconscious awe 
Of the little world, falsely call'd great, and the 

law 
Of its lawless dictators ; — an awe not indeed 
Of that great world which justly on each human 

deed 
Sits umpire, adjudging man's worth o'er man's 

grave. 
Like those solemn Tribunals of Egypt, which gave 
Or denied to her dead kings the tombs of the 

kings : 
That grand court of Public Opinion, whence 

springs 
Man's loyal allegiance to lofty control, 
WWch confines not his life, but concentrates his 

soul. 



38 LUCILE. t^ART L 

For obedience is nobler than freedom. Wbat's 

free ? 
The vex'd straw on the wind, the froth'd spume 

on the sea : 
The great ocean itself, as it rolls and it swells, 
In the bonds of a boundless obedience dwells. 
' Ah, what will the world say V . , the world I — 

therein lies 
The question which, as it is utter'd, implies 
All that 's fine or that 's feeble in thought and in- 
tent. 
The distinction depends on the luorld that is meant. 
Was it base, our own Nelson's life-cry for ' A place 
In Westminster Abbey, and Victory ' ? Base, 
The Hero's last thought — ' Will men murmur my 

name 
In Athens ? * Base ? no ! 

What is man's faith in fame, 
But respect for the world's good opinion ? 

What then? 
Is it noble (since man owes submission to men 
As the judges of man) the Fop's query — ' Those 
cavillers 

* And gossips, what say they of me at the Travel- 

* Or White's ? ' Noble ? no ! _ 

Whence is faith weak in act, 
But from fear of the world's false opinion V 



In fact, 

Had Lord Alfred found that rare communion 

which links 
Wit!li what woman feels purely, what man nobly 

thinks, 
And by hallowing life's hopes, enlarges life's 

strength. 
His shrewd tact had moulded and master'd ^ 

length 



Oakto H.J lccile. 89 

The world that now mastcr'd and mouliied his wilL 

An affluent sympathy, dexterous skill, 

And prompt apprehension in him, would have 

saved 
His life from the failures of those who have braved 
The world, with no clew to its intricate plan, 
And made him a great, and a practical man. 
But the permanent cause why his life faii'd and 

miss'd 
The full value of life was, — where man should 

resist 
The world, which man's genius is call'd to com- 
mand, 
He gave way, less from lack of the power to with- 
stand 
Than from lack of the resolute will to retain 
Those strongholds of life which the world stri\ea 

to gain. 
For let a man once show the world that he feels 
Afraid of its bark, and 't will fly at his heels : 
Let him fearlessly face it, 't will leave him alone : 
But 't will fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone. 



The moon of September, now half at the full, 
V/as unfolding from darkness and dreamland the 

lull 
Of the quiet blue air, where the many-faced hills 
Watch'd, well-pleased, their fair slaves, the light, 

foam-footed rills. 
Dance and sing down the steep marble stairs or 

their courts. 
And gracefully fashion a thousand sweet sports. 
Like ogres in council those mountains look'd down, 
Impassive, each king in his purple and crown. 
Lord Alfred (by this on his journeyings far) 
Was pensively puffing his Lopez cigar. 
And brokenly humming an old opera strain. 
And thinking, perchance, of tiose castlee ::3 Spain 



40 LUCILE. [PABT L 

Wbicli that long rocky barrier hid from his sight ; 
When suddenly, out of the darkness of night, 
A horseman emerged from a fold of the hill, 
And so startled his steed, that was winding at will 
Up the thin dizzy strip of a pathway which led 
O'er the mountain — the reins on its neck, and its 

head 
Hanging lazily forward— that, but for a hand 
Light and ready, yet firm, in familiar command, 
Both rider and horse might have been in a trice 
Hurl'd horribly over the grim precipice. 

XIV. 

As soon as the moment's alarm had subsided. 
And the oath, with which nothing can find unpro- 
vided 
A thoroughbred Englishman, safely exploded. 
Lord Alfred unbent (as Apollo his bow did 
Now and then) his erectness; and looking, not 

ruder 
Than such inroad would warrant, survey'd the in- 
truder, 
Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his glory 
My hero, and finish'd abruptly this story. 



The stranger, a man of his own age or less. 

Well mounted, and simple though rich in hi> 

dress. 
Wore his beard and moustache in the fashion of 

France. 
His face, which was pale, gather'd force from ths 

glance 
Of a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes. 
With a gest of apology, touch'd with surprise, 
He lifted his hat, bow'd, and courteously made 
Some excuse in such well-cadenced French as be^ 

tray'd. 
At the first word he spoke, the Parisian. 



CAHTO n.J LDCILE. 41 



XYL 

I swear 
I have wan Jer'd about in the world everywhere ; 
From many strange mouths have heard many 

strange tongues ; 
Straln'd with many strange idioms my lips and my 

lungs; 
Walk'd in many a far land, regretting my own ; 
In many a language groan'd many a groan ; 
And have often had reason to curse those wild fel- 
lows 
Who built the high house at which Heaven turn'd 

jealous, 
Making human audacity stumble and stammer 
When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of 

Grammar. 
But the language of languages dearest to me 
Is that in which once, ma toute cJieriej 
When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for 

hours, 
You explain'd what was silently said by the flowers, 
And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flame 
Through my heart, as, in laughing, you murmur'd 

je faime. 
O my Rosebud of Paestum, whose bloom never dies ! 
Now dead on my bosom that dear flow'ret lies ; 
But the meaning you gave to it then cannot fade ; 
In my being it blooms, and its fragrance hath made 
A garden within me, where memory strays, 
Evennore, with faint footfalls, down blossoming 

ways. 

xvn. 

The Italians have voices like peacocks ; the Spanish 
Smell, I fancy, of garlic; the Swedish and Danish 
Have something too llunic, too rough and unshod 

in 
T^eir accent for mouths not descended from Odin 



42 LUCILE. [Part L 

Gennan gives me a cold in the head, sets me wheez* 

And coughing ; and Russian is nothing but sneez- 

ing; 
But, by Belus and Babel 1 I never have heard, 
And I never shall hear (I well know it), one word 
Of that delicate idiom of Paris without 
Feehng morally sure, beyond question or doubt. 
By the wild way in which my heart inwardly llut- 

ter'd. 
That my heart's native tongue to my heart had 

been utter'd. 
And whene'er I hear French spoken as I approve, 
I feel myself quietly falling in love. 



Lord Alfred, on hearing the stranger, appeased 
By a something, an accent, a cadence, which 

pleased 
His ear with that pledge of good breeding which tells 
At once of the world in whose fellowship dwells 
The speaker that owns it, was glad to remark 
In the horseman a man one might meet after dark 
Without fear. 

Not unfavorably thus impress'd, 
As it secm'd, with each other, the two men abreaot 
Rode on slowly a moment. 

XIX. 

Steanger. 

I see, Sir, you are 
A smoker. Allow me 1 

Lord Alfred. 

Pray take a cigar. 

Stranger. 

Many thanks ! . . . Such cigars are a luxury here. 
Do you go to Serchon ? 



CAirro II.] LUCILE. 43 

Lord Alfred. 

Yes ; and you ? 

Stranger. 

Yes. I fear, 
Since our road is the same, that our journey must 

be 
Somewhat closer than is our acquaintance. You 

see 
IIow narrow the path is. I *m tempted to ask 
Your permission to finish (no difficult task !) 
The cigar you have given me (really a prize I) 
In your company. 

Lord Alfred. 

Charm'd, Sir, to find your road liea 
In the way of my own inclinations I Indeed 
The dream of your nation I find in tliis weed. 
In the distant Savannahs a talisman grows 
That makes all men brothers that use it . . . who 

knows ? 
That blaze which erewhile from the Boulevart out- 
broke. 
It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir, — in 

smoke. 
Messieurs Lopez (whatever your publicists write) 
Have done more in their way human kind to 

unite 
Than ten Prudhons perchance. 

What a wonderful spo* ' ■ 
This air is delicious ; the day was too hot. 

Stranger. 

Ah, yes! did you chance scarce a half-hour ago 
To remark that miraculous sunset ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Why, no 



44 LUCILE. [Paet I 



Stranger. 

All the Occident, fused in one fierce conflagration, 
Stream'd flame : and the hills, as in ^rim expectation, 
Scarr'd and hoary stood round, like severe hiero- 

phants 
When at some savage rite the red flame breathes 

and pants 
And expands for a victim. 

Lord Alfred. 

A very old trick 1 
One would think that the sun by this time must be 

sick 
Of blushing with such a parade of disdain 
For this frivolous world he enlightens in vain. 
I see you 're a poet. 

Stranger. 

^Vho is not, alone 
In these mountains ? For me, though, I own I am 

none. 
Man's life is but short, and the youth of a man 
Is yet shorter. I wish to enjoy what I can. 
A sunset, if only a sunset be near ; 
A moon such as this, if the weather be clear ; 
A good dinner, if hunger come with it ; good wine, 
If I 'm thirsty ; a fire, if I 'm cold ; and, in fine. 
If a woman is pretty, to me 't is no matter, 
Be she blonde or brunette, so she lets me look at her 

Lord Alfred. 

I suspect that at Serchon, if rumour speak true, 
Your choice is not limited. 

Stranger. 

Yes. One or two 
Of our young Paris ladies remain there, but yet 
The season is over. 



Canto 11.] LUClLE. 45 

Lord Alfred. 

I almost forget 
The place ; but remember when last I was there, 
I thuught the best part of it then was the air 
And the mountains. 

Stranger. 

No doubt 1 all these baths are the same. 
One wonders for what upon earth the world came 
To seek, under all sorts of difficulties, 
The very same things in the far Pyrenees 
Which it fled from at Paris. Health, which is, no 

doubt, 
The true object of all, not a soul talks about. 
*T is a sort of religion. 

Lord Alfred. 

You know the place well ? 

Stranger. 

I have been there two seasons. 

Lord Alfred. 

Pray who is the Belle 
Of the Baths at this moment ? 

Stranger. 

Tlie same who has been 
The belle of all places in which she is seen ; 
The belle of all Paris last winter ; last spring 
The belle of all Baden. 

Lord Alfred. 

An uncommon thing 1 

Stranger. 

Sir, an uncommon beauty 1 ... I rather should 



46 LUCILE. [Pabt L 

An uncommon character. Truly, each day- 
One meets women whose beauty is equal to hers 
But none with the charm of Lucile de Ncvers. 

Lord Alfred. 

Madame de Nevers 1 

Stranger. 

Do you know her ? 

Lord Alfred. 

I knoiw 
Or, rather, I knew her, — a long tune ago. 
I almost f»rget. . . . 

Stranger. 

What a wit I what a grace 
In her language ! her movements 1 what play in 

her face 1 
And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal I 

Lord Alfred. 

You speak like a lover. 

Stranger. 

I speak as I feel, 
But not like a lover. What interests me so 
In Lucile, at the sAme time forbids me, I know, 
To give to that interest, whate'er the sensation, 
The name we men give to an hour's admiration, 
A night's passing passion, an actress's eyes, 
A dancing-girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs. 

Lord Alfred. 

Yes, 1 quite comprehend. But this sadness — this 

shade 
Which you speak of ? ... it almost would make 

me afraid 
Your gay countrymen, Sir, less adroit must have 

grown, 



CakTO n.] LUCILE. 47 

Since wlien, as a stripling, at Paris, I own 

I found in tlicm terrible rivals, — if yet 

They have all lack'd the skill to console this regret 

(If regret be the word I should use), or fulfil 

This desire (if desire be the word), which seems stil] 

To endure unappeased. For I take it for granted 

From all that you say, that the will was not wanted 

XX. 

The stranger replied, not without irritation : 

* I have heard that an Englishman — one of yotu 

nation 

* I presume — and If so, I must beg you, indeed, 

* To excuse the contempt which I . . . ' 

Lord Alfred. 

Pray, Sir, proceed 
With your tale. My compatriot, what was his 
crime ? 

Stranger. 

Oh, nothing ! His folly was not so sublime 

As to merit that term. If I blamed him just now. 

It was not for the sin, but the silliness. 

Lord Alfred. 

How? 

SxRiJTGEK. 

I own I hate botany. Still, ... I admit. 
Although I myself have no passion for it. 
And do not understand, yet I cannot despise 
The cold man of science, who walks with his eyes 
All alert through a garden of flowers, and strips 
The lilies* gold tongues, and the roses' red lips. 
With a ruthless dissection ; since he, I suppose, 
Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief he 

does. 
But the stupid and mischievous boy, that uproots 



48 LUCILE. [Part 1 

The exotics, and tramples the tender young shoots 

For a boy's brutal pastime, and only because 

He knows no distinction 'twixt heartsease and 

haws, — 
One would wish, for the sake of each nursling so 

nipp'd, 
To catch the young rascal and have him well 

whipp'd 1 

LoKD Alfred. 

Some compatriot of mine, do I then understand, 
With a cold Northern heart, and a rude English 

hand, 
Has injured your Rosebud of Fran'^e ? 

Steanger. 

Sir, I know 
But little, or nothing. Yet some faces show 
The last act of a tragedy in their regard : 
Though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is not 

hard 
To divine, more or less, what the plot may have 

been, 
And what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the scene. 
And whenever I gaze on the face of Lucile, 
With its pensive and passionless languor, I feel 
That some feeling hath burnt there . . . burnt out, 

and burnt up 
Health and hope. So you feel when you ga79 

down the cup 
Of extlnguish'd volcanoes : you judge of the fir'> 
Once there, by the ravage you see ; — the desire, 
By the apathy left in its wake, and that sense 
Of a moral, immovable, mute impotence. 

Lord Alfred. 

Humph 1 ... I see you have finish'd, at last, j oui 

cigar : 
Can I oQer another ? 



CaotO n.l LUCILE. 49 

Strakger. 

No, thank you We ara 
Not two miies from Serchon. 

Lord Alfred. 

You know the road weL ? 

Stranger. 

3 Have often been over it. 



Here a pause fell 
On their converse. Still, musingly on, side by side 
In the moonlight, the two men continued to ride 
Down the dim mountain pathway. But each, for 

the rest 
Of their journey, altho' they still rode on abreast, 
Continued to follow in silence the train 
Of the different feelings that haunted his brain ; 
And each, as though roused from a deep reverie, 
Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to see 
Burst at once on the moonlight the silvery Baths, 
The long hme-tree alley, the dark gleaming paths, 
FVith the lamps twinkling through them — the 

quaint wooden roofs — 
rhe little white houses. 

The clatter of hoofs. 
And the music of wandering bands, up the walls 
Of the steep hanging hill, at remote intervals 
Reach'd them, cross'd by the sound of the clacking 

of whips. 
And here and there, faintly, through serpentine 

slips 
Of verdant rose-gardens, dew-shelter'd with screens 
Of airy acacias and dark evergreens, 
They could mark the white dresses, and catch the 

light songs. 
Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd m throngs 
4 



dO LUCiLE [Part L 

Led by Laughter and Love tlirough the cool even- 
tide, 
Down the di-eam-haunted valley, or up the hlll-slde. 



At length at the door of the inn 1'Herisson, 

(Pray go there, if ever you go to Serchon !) 

The two horsemen;, well pleased to have reach'd it, 

alighted 
And exchanged their last greetings. 

The Frenchman invited 
Lord Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred decUned. 
He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dined 
In his own rooms that night. _ * 

With an unquiet eye 
He watch'd his companion depart ; nor knew why, 
Beyond all accountable reason or measure. 
He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure. 

* The fellow 's good-looking/ he murmur'd at last) 

* And yet not a coxcomb.' Some ghost of the past 
Vex'd him still. 

' If he love her,' he thought, * let him 
win her.* 
Then he turn'd to the future — and order'd his 
dinner^ 



O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth, 
Blessed hour of our dinners I 

The land of his birth ' 
The face of his first love ,* the bills that he owes ; 
The twaddle of friends, and the venom of foes ; 
The sermon he heard when to church he last went '■ 
The money he borrow'd, the money he spent ; — 
All of these things a man, I believe, may forget. 
And not be the worse for forgetting ; but yet 
Never, never, oh never 1 earth's luckiest sinner 
Hath unpuuish'd forgotten the hour of his dinner J 
Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach, 



CAKTO II.] LUCILE. 51 

Shall relentlessly gn^w and pursue him with some 

ache 
Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, Lis best 

ease, 
As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes. 



We may live without poetry, music, and art ; 

We may live without conscience, and live without 
heart ; 

We may live without friends ; we may live without 
books ; 

But civilized man cannot live without cooks. 

He may live without books, --what is knowledge 
but grieving ? 

He may live without hope, — what is hope but de- 
ceiving ? 

He may live without love, — what is passion but 
pining ? 

But where is the man that can live v/ithout dining ? 



Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note 
From Lucile. 

* Your last letter has reach'd me,Vshe wrote. 

* This evening, alas ! I must go to the ball. 

And shall not be at home till too late for your call, 
' But to-moiTow, at any rate, sansfaule, at One 

* You will find me at home, and will find me alone. 

* ]\Ieanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord, « 
' For the honour with which you adhere to your 

word. 

* Yes, I thank you, Lord Alfred 1 To-morrow, then. 



I find myself terribly puzzled to tell 
The feelings with which Alfred Yargrave flun§ 
down 



52 LUCiLfi. [Part L 

Thig note, as he pour'd out Ms wine. T must own 
That I think he, himself, could have hardly ex- 

plain'd 
Those feelings exactly. 

* Yes, yes,' as he drain'd 
The glass down, he mutter'd, ' Jack 's right, after 

all : 

* The coquette ! ' 

* Does milord mean to go to the ball ?* 
Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd. 

' Perhaps. I don't know. 

* You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go.* 



Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs, 
When season'd by love, which no ranoour disturbs, 
And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life, 
Than turbot, bisque, ortalans, eaten in strife 1 
But if, out of humour, and hungry, alone 
A man should sit down to a dinner, each one 
Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil 
With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil, 
The chances are ten against one, I must own, 
He gets up as ill-temper'd as when he sat down. 
And if any reader this fact to dispute is 
Disposed, I say . . . ' Allium edat cicutis 
* Nucentius 1 ' 

Round the fruit and the wine 
IJndisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening wa§ 

fine. 
liOrd Alfred his chair by the window had set, 
And languidly lighted his small cigarette. 
The window was open. The warm air without 
Waved the flame of the candles. The moths wen 

about. 
In the gloom he sat gloomy. 



Canto HI lucile. 68 

xxvni. 

Gay sounds from below 
Floated up like faint echoes of joys long ago, 
And night deepen'd apace: through the dark 

avenues 
The lamps twinkled bright ; and by threes, and by 

twos. 
The idlers of Serchon were strolling at will, 
As Lord Alfred could see from the cool window 

sill, 
Where his gaze, as he languidly turn'd it, fell o'er 
His late travelling companion, now passing before 
The inn, at the window of which he still sat. 
In full toilette, — boots varnish'd, and snowy cravat, 
Gayly smoothing and buttoning a yellow kid glove, 
As he turn'd down the avenue. 

Watching above, 
From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he 

walk'd 
To mix with those groups, and now nodded, now 

talk'd. 
To the young Paris dandies. Lord Alfred discern'd, 
By the way hats were lifted, and glances were 

turn'd. 
That his unknown acquaintance, now bound for 

the ball, 
Was a person of rank and of fashion ; for all 
Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopp'd with and 

chatter'd, 
Walk'd on with a look which implied . . . ' I feci 

flatter'd 1 ' 

XXIX. 

His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom. 

XXX. 

Lord Alfred stiU sat by himself in his room. 
He had finish'd, one after the other, a dozen 



64 LUCILE. [Part L 

Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin : 
He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lucile: 
He had thought about many things: thought a 

great deal 
Of himself: of his past life, his future, his present : 
He had thought of the moon, neither full moon nor 

crescent : 
Of the gay world, so sadl life, so sweet and so 

sour 1 
He had thought too, of glory, and fortune, and 

power : 
Thought of love, and the country, and sympathy, 

and 
A poet's asylum in some distant land : 
Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no 

doubt. 
In particular ; also he had thought much about 
His digestion, his debts, and his dinner : and last, 
He thought that the night would be stupidly pass'd 
If he thought any more of such matters at all : 
So lie rose, and resolved to set out for the ball. 



I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilette. 

That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, and flung by in a 

pet. 
Half-a-dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the 

nonce 
Twenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it once 
I believe that he split up, in drawing them on, 
Three pair of pale lavender gloves, one by one. 
And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last, 
When he reach'd the Casino, although he walk'il 

fast. 
He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door, 
The church clock strike Twelve. 

XXXII. 

The last waltz was just o'er. 



Canto H J lucile. 55 

The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter. 
A crowd block'd the door: and a buzz and a 

mutter 
Went about in the room as a young man, whose 

face 
Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place, 
But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and 

warm 
Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his arm 
Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, 
Left the baUi-oom. 



The hubbub of comment and praise 
Keach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd. 

'Mafoir 
Said a Frenchman beside him, ... * That lucky 

Luvois 
' Has obtained all the gifts of the gods . . . rank 
and wealth, 

* And good looks, and then such inexhaustible 

health 1 

* He that hath shall have more ; and this truth, I 

surmise, 

* Is the cause why, to-night, by the beautiful eyes 

' Of la charmante Lucile more distinguish'd than 
all, 

* He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball.* 
' Is it true,' ask'd a lady aggressively fat, 
,Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat 

By another that look'd like a needle, all steel 
And tenuity — ' Luvois will marry Lucile ? ' 
The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, 
As tho' it were bent upon driving a stitch 
Thro' somebody's character. 

'Madam,' replied, 
Interposing, a young man who sat by their side. 
And was languidly fanning his face with his hat^ 
' I am ready to bet my new Tilbury that, 



ft* LVCILE. [PAliT 1. 

* If Luv 01b has pi-oposed, the Countesse has refused.* 
The fat and thin iadie^ were highly amused. 

* Kefhsed ' . . . what 1 a young Duke, not thirty, my 

dear, 

* With at least half a million (what is it ?) a year! 

* That may be,* said the thbd ; * yet I know some 

time since 
*Castelmar -was refused, though as rich and a 
Prince. 

* But Luvois, who was never before in his life 

* In love with a woman who was not a wife, 

* Is now certainly serious.' 



Kecommenced. 



XXXIV. 

The music once more 



Said Lord Alfred, * This ball is a bore 1 
And return'd to the inn, somewhat worse than 



before. 



XXXVI. 



There, whilst musing he lean'd the dark valley 

above, 
Thro' the warm land were wand'ring the spirits of 

love. 
A soft breeze in the white window drapery stirr'd ; 
In the blossom'd acacia the lone cricket chirr'd ; 
The scent of the roses fell faint o'er the night, 
And the moon on the mountain was dreaming in 

light. 
Repose, and yet rapture 1 that pensive wild nature 
Impregnate with passion in each breathing feature ! 
Like a maiden withdrawn in her chamber, while 

yet 
Her lip with her first lover's first kiss is wet. 
In the bloom of its virginal blossom, who hears 
Her fol] teart beat loud in her small rosy ears, 



CAJ«T0 II.] LUCILE. 57 

Thro-agli the exquisite silence of passionate trance, 
Whilst, reveal'd in the light of youth's tender 

romance, 
Life's first great discovery dreamily moves 
Into sweet self surprise — she is loved, and she 

loves 1 



A stone's throw from thence, through the largo 

lime-trees peep'd, 
In a garden of roses, a white chalet, steep'd 
In the moonbeams. The windows oped down to 

the lawn ; 
The casements were open; the curtains were 

drawn; 
Lights stream'd from the inside; and with them 

the sound 
Of music and song. In the garden, around 
A table with fruits, wine, tea, ices, there set, 
Half a dozen young men and young women were 

met. 
Light, laughter, and voices, and music, all stream'd 
Through the quiet-leaved limes. At the window 

there seem'd 
For one moment the outline, familiar and fair. 
Of a white dress, a white neck, and soft dusky 

hair. 
Which Lord Alfred remember'd ... a moment 

or so 
It hover'd, then pass'd into shadow ; and slow 
The soft notes, from a tender piano upflung, 
Floated forth, and a voice unforgotten thus sung : — ■ 

'Hear a song that was born in the land of my 
birth 1 

* The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free, 

^ And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth 

* 'Twixt the hght in the sky and the light on the 



68 LUCILE. [Pakt L 

* And this ship is a world. She is freighted with 

souls, 

* She is freighted with merchandise : proudly she 

sails 
With the Labour that stores, and the Will that 
controls 

* The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. 

From the gardens of Pleasure, where reddejis the 
rose, 

* And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, 

* Past the harbours of Traffic sublimely she goes, 

* Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to 

bear I 

• Where the cheer from the harbours of Traffic is 

heard, 

* Where the gardens of Pleasure fade fast on the 

sight, 

• O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird ; 

' 'T is the Paradise Bird, never known to alight. 

* And that bird, bright and bold as a Poet's desire, 

* Koams her own native heavens, the realms of 

her birth. 
' There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a 
fire, 
*And her plumage hath never been sullied by 
earth. 

And the mariners greet her; there 's song on 
each lip, 

* For that bird of good omen, and joy in each 

eye. 

• And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the 

ship, 

* Together go forth over ocean and sky. 

*Fast, fast fades the land! far the rose-gardeca 
flee. 



CanTU II.] LUCILE. 69 

* And far fleet the harbours. In regions un«« 

known 

* The sliip is alone on a desert of sea, 

* And the bird in a desert of sky is alone. 

* In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of aii, 

* Down that desert of waters — tremendous in 

wrath — 

* The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps from his lair, 

* And cleaves, through the waves of the ocean, 

his path. 

* And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the 

wave, 

* Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales ; 
» And the mariners all rush their cargo to save, 

' Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. 

* Lo 1 a wonder, which never before hath been 

heard, 

* For it never before hath been given to sight ; 

* On the ship hath descended the Paradise Bird, 

* The Paradise Bird, never know to alight I 

* The bird which the mariner bless'd, when each lip 

* Had a song for the omen that gladden'd each 

eye, 

* The bright bird for shelter had flown to the ship 

* From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in 

the sky. 

* But the mariners heed not the bird any more. 

* They are felling the masts — they are furling 

the sails ; 
' Some are working, some weeping, and some 
wrangling o'er 

* Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales. 

* Souls of men are on board ; wealth of men in the 

hold ; 



60 LUCILE. PakT L 

* And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to Lis 

prey ; 

* And who heeds the bu-d ? " Save the silk and 

the gold ! " 

* And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps 

away 1 

'Poor Paradise Bird 1 on her lone flight once more 
*Back again in the wake of the wind she is 
driven — 

* To be whelm'd in the storm, or above it to soar, 

*And, if rescued from ocean, to vanish in 
heaven 1 

« And the ship rides the waters, and weathers the 
gales : 
*From the haven she nears the rejoicing la 
heard. 

* All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, 

' Save a child, sitting lonely, who misses — the 
Birdl'* 

* The idea which is imperfectly embodied in this song was 
suggested to me by a friend, to whom I am indebted for so much 
throughout this poem, that I gladly avail myself of this passing 
opportunity, in acknowledging the fact, to record my grateful 
§ense of it. I name him not. When he reads these words hifl 
heart will comprehend what ia in mine while I write them. 



Canto m.] , lucilk. 61 



CANTO m. 



Rise, O Muse, in the wrath of thy rapture divine, 

And sweep with a finger of awe every line, 

Till it tremble and burn, as thine own glances 

burn 
Through the vision thou kindlest! wherein I dis- 
cern 
All the unconscious cruelty hid in the heart 
Of mankind ; all the limitless grief we impart, 
Unawares, to each other ; the limitless wrong 
We indict without heed, as we hurry along 
In this boisterous pastime of life. So we toy 
With the infinite 1 so, in our sport we destroy 
What we made not, and cannot remake thro' tho 

whole 
Of existence, those feelings which are, in the soul, 
Future heavens or hells 1 so we recklessly scorn, 
In each other, Life's solemn significance I 

Worn 
In a too careless breast, lol the flower, left to 

bloom 
Round the desolate moral inscribed on a tomb — 
* Youth, Hope, Beauty, Innocence, Tenderness, 

Trust,' 
(So it runs,) 'this was Woman. Behold, it h 

dust 1 
This was Woman: it lived and it breath'd: and 

it said 
" Hove, and love dies not,"* Behold, it is dead. 
' This was woman : our hearts at her feet we laid 

down; 
' It is dust : and we trample it under our own.' 
Are we doom'd then, O sister, O brother, to war 



62 LUCILE. [PaeT L 

On each other forever ? half-lives as we are I 
Still impeird to unite, still from union self-thrust, 
Like those poor wounded worms we see writhe in 

the dust. 
Blindly groping about, with the instinct of pain, 
For each other, their maim'd life to mingle again. 
We, that need help and healing, O sister, O 

brother. 
Are we cannibals still of the hearts of each other ? 
In despite of its much-boasted science and art, 
Is this civilized world still a savage at heart '? 
Mourn, O Muse, — not indeed for the wrongs Life 

hath felt — 
These have mourners enough in the world ; mourn, 

and melt 
Into tears else unshed, for the wrongs Life hath 

wrought. 
By the transient desire and the trivial thought ; 
For the man (be he lover or loved) that doth jest 
With the passionate earnest of love in the breast 
Of a woman ; for the woman (or maiden, or wife) 
That doth sport with the passionate earnest of life 
In the heart of a man. Mourn, O Muse, for the 

soul. 
When her truest seem truthless, her fairest so 

foul! 
I have seen falsehood veil'd by the virginal cheek 
Of a child ; I have seen the immaculate, meek 
Dosdemona false ; Imogen wanton ; have seen 
Juliet faitliless ; and she, the chaste Ithacan Queen, 
C!hoose a swine from her suitors, and from hia 

embrace 
llise to write to her lord that she pined for hia 

face 
In a tender Ovidian strain ! I have seen 
The young bride shrewdly eying the cypress 

between 
Her first year's orange-blossoms, and blush not to 

crave 



CAN^ro m.] LUCILE. 63 

From the couch of a bridegroom the price of his 

grave ! 
Blush, O Muse, blush and burn 1 I have seen, I 

have seen, 
At the feet of a wanton with false-modest mien, 
The giants of Genius and Power enchain'd. 
While paler and paler their foreheads have waned. 

Yes 1 this life is the war of the False and the True. 
Yet this life is a truth; though so complex to 

view 
That its latent veracity few of us find ! 
But alas I for that man who, in judging mankind 
From a false point of view, should disloyally deal 
With the truth the world keeps, though the world 

may conceal. 
Ay, the world but a frivolous phantasm seems. 
And mankind in the mass but as motes in sun- 
beams ; 
But when Fate, from the midst of this frivolous 

nature. 
Selects for her purpose some frail human creature, 
And the Angel of Sorrow, outstretching a wan 
Forefinger to mark hun, strikes down from tht, 

man 
The false life that hid hun, the man's self appears 
A solemn reality : Him the dread spheres 
Of heaven and hell with their forces dispute. 
And dare we be indifierent ? Hence, and h^ 

mute. 
Light scofier, vain trifler ! Through all thou di3- 

cernest 
A Greater than thou is at work, and in earnest ; 
And he who dares trifle with man, trifles too 
With man's awful Maker. 

There *s terror that 's true 
In that tale of a youth who, one night at a revel^ 
Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by som^ 

devil, 



64 LUCILE. [Part I 

Follow'd ever one mask through the mad mas- 
querade, 

Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('t is said), 

He unmask'd with a kiss, the strange lady, and 
stood 

Face to face with a Thing not of flesh nor of blood. 

In this Masque of the Passions call'd life there 's no 
human 

Emotion, though mask'd, or in man or in woman, 

But, when faced and unmask'd, it will leave us at 
last 

Struck by some supernatural aspect aghast. 

For Truth is appalling and eltrich, as seen 

By this world's artificial lamplights, and we screen 

From our sight the strange vision that troubles our 
life. 

Alas 1 why is Genius forever at strife 

With the world, which, despite the world's self, it 
ennobles ? 

Why is it that Genius perplexes and troubles 

And offends the effete life it comes to renew ? 

*T is the terror of Truth 1 't is that Genius is true I 



Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read) 

Was a woman of genius : not genius, indeed, 

In the abstract, nor yet in the abstract mere wo- 

man : 
But THE WOMAN OF GENIUS, essentially human. 
Yet forever at war with her own human nature ; 
The genius, now fused in the woman, gave stature 
And strength to her sex ; now the woman, at war 
With the genius, impeded its flight to the star. 
As it is with all genius, the essence and soul 
Of her nature was truth. When she sought to 

control. 
Or to stifle, or palter in aught with that truth, 
T was when life seem'd to grant it no issues. 

Her routh 



CaitTO m.] LUCII.E. 65 

One occasion had known, when, if fused in an 

other, 
Thai tumult of soul, which she now sought to 

smother, 
Finding scope within man's larger life, and con- 
trol IM 
By man's clearer judgment, perchance might havf. 

roU'd 
Into channels enriching the troubled existence 
Which it now only vex'd with an inward resist- 
ance. 
But that chance fell too soon, when the crude sense 

of power 
Which had been to her nature so fatal a dower, 
Was too fierce and unfashion'd to fuse itself yet 
In the life of another, and served but to fret 
And to startle the man it yet haunted and thrall'd ; 
And that moment, once lost, had been never re- 

call'd. 
But it left her heart sore : and to shelter her heart 
From approach, she then sought, in that delicate 

art 
Of concealment, those thousand adroit strategies 
Of feminine wit, which repel while they please. 
A weapon, at once, and a shield, to conceal 
And defend all that women can earnestly feel. 
Thus, striving her instincts to hide and repress. 
She felt frightcn'd at times by her very success ; 
She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the 

fctars : 
f Tolden wires may annoy us as much as steel bars 
if they keep us behind prison-windows : impas- 

sion'd 
Her heart rose and bmst the light cage she had 

fashion'd 
Out of glittering trifles around it, unfurl'd 
Wings of desolate llight, and soar'd up from the 

world. 
In this dual identity possibly lay 
5 



66 LUCILE. [Pakt L 

The secret and cliarm of hei singular sway 

Over men of the world. 'T was the genius, all 

warm 
With the woman, that gave to the woman a charm 
Indescribably strange ; there appear'd in her life 
A puzzle, a mystery — something at strife 
With such men, which yet thrall'd and enchain'd 

them in part, 
And; perplexing the fancy, still haunted the heart. 
That intensity, earnestness, depth, or veracity, 
AThich starward impell'd her with such pertinacity 
As turns to the loadstar the needle, reflected 
Itself upon others : she therefore affected, 
Unconsciously, those amongst whom she was 

thrown, 
As the magnet the metal it neighbours. 

Unknown 
To herself, all her instincts, without hesitation, 
Embraced the idea of self-immolation. 
Unlike man's stern intellect, which, while it stands 
Aloof from the minds that it sways and commands 
By a power wrench'd from labour, sublimely com-> 

pels 
All around and beneath the high sphere where it 

dwells 
To its fix'd and imperial purpose ; in her 
The soft spirit of woman that seeks to confer 
Its sweet self on the loved, had her life but been 

blended 
With some man's whose heart had her own compro' 

hended. 
All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly 

thrown. 
For him she had then been ambitious alone ; 
For him had aspired ; in him had transfused 
All the gladness and grace of her nature ; and used 
For him only the spells of its delicate power : 
Like the ministering fairy that brings from her 

bov/er 



CaUXO III.J LUCILE. 67 

To some mage all the treasures, whose use the fond 

elf, 
Moi-e enricli'd by her love, disregards for herself. 
But standing apart, as she ever had done, 
Aud her genius, which needed a vent, finding 

none 
In the broad fields of action thrown wide to man's 

power. 
She unconsciously made it her bulwark and tower, 
And built in it her refuge, whence lightly she 

hurl'd 
Her contempt at the fashions and forms of the 

world. 



scorn 
Of the world, to whose usages woman is born. 
Not the AVoRLD, where that word implies all hu- 
man nature, 
The Creator's great gift to the needs of the crea- 
ture : 
That large heart, with its sorrow to solace, its care 
To assuage, and its grand aspirations to share : 
But the world, with encroachments that chafe and 

perplex. 
With its men against man, and its sex against sex. 
' Ah, ivhat tvill the world say ? ' with her was a 

query 
Never utter'd, or utter'd alone with a dreary 
Rejection in thought of the answer before 
[t was heard: hence the thins which she sought 

to Ignore 
And escape from in thought, she encounter'd in act 
By the blindness with which she opposed it. 

In fact, 
Had Lucile found in life that communion which 

links 
All that woman but dreams, feels, conceives oi 
and thinks, 



68 LUCILE. [Part L 

With what man acts and is, — concentrating the 

strength 
Of her genius within \ er affections, at length 
Finding woman's full use through man's life, by 

man's skill 
Readapted to forms fix'd for life, the strong will 
And high heart which the world's creeds now reck- 
lessly braved, 
From the world's crimes the man of the world 

would have saved ; 
Reconciled, as it were, the divine with the human, 
And, exalting the man, have completed the woman. 

But the permanent cause why she now miss'd and 

fail'd 
That firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd, 
Was, in all those diurnal occasions that place 
The world and the woman opposed face to face, 
AVhere the woman must yield, she, refusing to 

stir, 
Offended the world, which in turn wounded her. 

For the world is a nettle ; disturb it, it stings : 
Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two 

things. 
If you woukl not be stung, it behoves you to settle : 
Avoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle ; 
For she could not ; nor would she avoid it : sha 

tried 
With the weak hand of woman to thrust it aside, 
And it stung her. A woman is too slight a thing 
To trample the world without feeling its sting. 



One lodges but simply at Serchon ; yet, thanks 
To the season that changes forever the banks 
Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light 

cloud 
O'er the valley, and hushes or rouses the loud 



Ca>'TO ni.J LUCILE, 6S 

Wind that, wails iu the pines, or creeps murmuring 

down 
The dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering towu, 
And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar, 
And tlie bluebells that purple the dapple-gray 

scaur. 
One sees with each month of the many-faced ycax 
A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. 
The chalet where dwelt the Comtessc de Nevers 
Rested half up the base of a mountain of firs. 
In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road. 
Yet withdrawn from its noise : 't was a peacefci 

abode, 
^nd the walls, and the roofs, with their gables likir 

hoods 
Which the monks wear, were built of sweet resiu 

ous woods. 
The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended 
The steep garden paths, every odour had blended 
Of the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes. 
With the balms floated down from the dark woode<» 

slopes : 
A light breeze at the windows was playing about, 
And the white cm'tains floated, now in, and now 

out. 
The house was all hush'd when he rang at tha 

door. 
Which was open'd to him in a moment or more 
By an old nodding negress, whose sable head 

shincd 
In the sun hke a cocoa-nut polish'd in Ind, 
'Neath the snowy Jbularde which about it waa 

wound. 



Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound. 
He remember'd the nurse of Lucile. The old 

dame. 
Whose teeth and whose eysa used to beam when 

he came, 



70 LUCILE. [Part 1. 

With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore, 
To pass, unannounced, her young mistress's door. 
The old -woman had fondled Lucile on her knee 
When she left, as an infant, far over the sea, 
In India, the tomb of a mother, unknown. 
To pine, a pale flowret, in great Paris town. 
She had sooth'd the child's sobs on her breast "when 

she read 
The letter that told her her father was dead. 
An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses, 
Had studied men, cities, laws, the abysses 
Of statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he. 
He had wander'd the world through, by land and 

by sea, 
And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will, 
Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill 
To conciliate Fortune, and courage to brave 
Her displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, and cast by 

the wave 
On his own quick resources, they rarely had fail'd 
His command : often baffled, he ever prevail'd, 
In his combat with fate : to-day flatter'd and fed 
By monarchs, to-morrow in search of mere bread. 
The offspring of times trouble-haunted, he came 
Of a family ruin'd, yet noble in name. 
He lost sight of his fortune, at twenty, in France ; 
And, half statesman, half soldier, and wholly Free- 
lance, 
Had wander'd, in search of it, over the world, 
Into India. 

But scarce had the nomad unfurl'd 
His wandering tent at Mysore, in the smile 
Of a Rajah (whose court he controU'd for a while, 
And whose council he prompted and govern'd by 

stealth) ; 
Scarce, irdeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth, 
Who died giving birth to this daughter, before 
He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore. 
His fortune, which went to his orphan, perchance 



Canto III.] LCCILS. 71 

Had secured her a home with his sister In France, 
A lone woman, the last of the race left. Lucilc 
Neither felt, nor affected, the wish to conceal 
The half-Eastern blood, which appear'd to be^ 

queath 
(Reveal'd now and then, though but rarely, be- 
neath 
That outward repose that conceal'd it in her) 
A something half wild to her strange character. 
The old nurse with the orphan, awhile broken- 
hearted, 
At the door of a convent in Paris had parted. 
But later, once ocre, with her mistress she tarried, 
When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had been 

married 
To a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died, 
With no claim on her tears — she had wept as a 

bride, 
in those days the old negress, now shaking her head 
So vaguely, had laugh'd with ' le petit Alfred,^ 
Now she seem'd to remember him not. With a 

sigh 
Tljonght Lord Alfred, ' So changed in a few yeara 

ami?' 
Then he pass'd on. ' Your mistress expects me.' 

Tlie crone 
Oped the drawing-room door, and there left him 
alone. 



O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of grace 
Kested silence and perfume. No sound reach'd 

the place. 
In the white curtains waver'd the delicate shade 
Of the heaving acacias, through which the breeze 

play'd. 
O'er the smooth wooden floor, polish'd dark as a 

glass, 
Fragrant white Incb'^in matting allow'd you to pass 



72 LUCILE. [FAirt: I 

In light olive baskets, by window and dooi, 

Some huug from tlie ceiling, some crowdinj the 

floor, 
Rich wild flowers, pluck'd by Lucile from th^i hill, 
Seem'd the room with their passionate prestace to 

fill: 
Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed ; 
The deep belladonna its vermeil disclo^^d ; 
And the frail saponaire, and the tender- biue-bell, 
And the purple valerian, — each child of the fell 
And the solitude flourish'd, fed fair from the source 
Of waters the huntsman scarce heeds in hir course, 
Where the chamois and izard, with delicat4i hoof, 
Pause or flit through the pinnacled silciice iloof. 



This white, little, fragrant apartment, 't is true, 
Seem'd unconsciously fashion'd for some rendez 

vous ; 
But you felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed, 
'T was the shrine of a life chaste and calm. Ilalf 

unclosed 
In the light slept the flowers : all was pure and at 

rest ; 
All peaceful ; all modest ; all seem'd self-possess'd, 
And aAvare of the silence. No vestige nor trace 
Of a young woman's coquetry troubled the place ; 
Not a scarf, not a shawl : on the mantel-piece 

merely 
A nosegay of flowers, all withered, or nearly, 
And a little white glove, that was torn at the wrist, 
Impell'd by an impulse, too strong to resist, 
Lord Alfred caught up, with a feverish e^T-a.-p, 
The torn glove, and flung it aside with a gasp ; 
It seem'd like the thrill of a final farewtVil. 
He took up the nosegay, without bloom or !;mell, 
And inaudibly, bitterly, mutter'd, or sigh'd 
Some rebuke to the flowers ere he laid it aside. 
Had Lucile by design left the dead flowers there V 



C-VNTC in.] JLUCILE. 73 

The torn glove ? I know nothing. I cannot de- 
clare. 



He turn'd to the window. A cloud pass'd the sun. 

The breeze lifted itself up the leaves, one by one. 

Just then Lueile enter'd the room, undiscern'd 

By Lord Alfred, whose face to the window waa 
turn'd. 

In a strange reverie. 

The time was, when Lucile, 

In beholding that man, could not help but reveal 

The rapture, the fear, which wrench'd out every 
nerve 

In the heart of the girl from the woman's reserve. 

And now — she gazed at him, calm, smiling, — per- 
chance 

Indifferent. 



Indifferently turning his glance, 
Alfred Vargrave encounter'd that gaze unaware. 
O'er a boddice snow-white stream'd her soft, dusky 

hair ; 
A rose-bud half-blown in her hand ; in her eyes 
A half pensive smile 

A sharp cry of surprise 
Escap'd from his lips : then, embarrass'd and vex'd, 
He saluted the Countess ; and sought, much per- 

plex'd, 
For some trivial remark — the conventional 

phrases — 
Irreproachable maimers, appropriate praises. 
But, in spite of himself, some unknown agitation, 
An invincible trouble, a strange palpitation, 
Confused his in}2;enious and frivolous wit ; 
Overtook, and entangled, and paralyzed it. 
That wit so complacent and docile, that ever 
Lightly came at the call of the lightest endeavour, 



74 LUCILE. [?AKT I 

Ready coln'd, and availably current as gold, 
Which, secure of its value, so fluently roll'd 
In free circulation from hand on to hand 
For the usage of all, at a moment's command ; 
For once it rebell'd, it was mute and unstirr'd, 
And he look'd at Lucile without speaking a word. 



Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the face 
On whose features he gazed had no more than a 

trace 
Of the face his remembrance had imaged for years. 
Yes ! the face he remember'd was faded with tears : 
Grief had famish'd the figure, and dimm'd the dark 

eyes, 
And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with 

sighs. 
And that tender, and gracious, and fond coquetterie 
Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be 
Something dear to tlie lips that so warmly caress 
Every sacred detail of her exquisite dress, 
In the careless toilette of Lucile, — then too sad 
To care aught to her changeable beauty to add, — 
Lord Alfred had never admired before I 
Alas I poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore, 
Had neglected herself, never heeding, nor thinking 
(While the blossom and bloom of her beauty wero 

shrinking) 
That sorrow can beautify only the heart — 
Not the face — of a woman ; and can but impart 
Its endearment to one that hath suffered. In tmth 
Grief hath beauty for grief; but gay youth lovea 

gay youth. 



The woman that now met, unshrinking, his gaze, 
Seem'd to bask in the silent but sumptuous blaze 
Of that soft second summer, more ripe than the 
first, 



Canto III.] lucilk. 75 

Wblch returns when the bud to the blossom bath 

burst 
In despite of tlie stormiest April. Lucile 
Had acquired that matchless unconscious appeal 
To the homage which none but a churl would with- 
hold- 
That caressing and exquisite grace — never bold, 
Ever present — which just a few women posses8. 
From a healthful repose, undisturb'd by tlie stress' 
Of unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawn 
A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn. 
Her figure, though slight, had revived everywhere 
The luxurious proportions of youth ; and her hair — 
Once shorn as an offering to passionate love — 
Now floated or rested redundant above 
Her airy pure forehead and throat ; gather'd loose 
Under whicli, by one violet knot, the profuse 
"Milk-white folds of a cool, modest garment reposed, 
Eippled faint by the breast they half hid, half dis- 
closed. 
And her simple attire thus in all things reveal'd 
The fine art which so artfully all things conceai'd. 



Lord Alfred, who never conceiv'd that Lucile 
Could have look'd so enchanting, felt tempted to 

kneel 
At her feet, and her pardon with passion implore ; 
But the calm smile that met him sufficed to restore 
The pride and the bitterness needed to meet 
The occasion with dignity due and discreet. 



* Madam,' — thus he began with a voice reassur'd — 

* You see that your latest command has secur'd 

* My immediate obedience — presuming I may 

* Consider my freedom restor'd from this day * — 

I had thought,' said Lucile, with a smUe gay yet 
ead. 



76 LUCILE. [Pakt L 

* That your freedom from me not a fetter has had. 

* Indeed ! ... in my chains have you rested till 

now ? 

* I had not so flatter'd myself, I avow ! * 

* For Heaven's sake, Madam,' Lord Alfred replied, 

* Do not jest ! has this moment no sadness V ' hfl 

sigh'd. 

* 'T is an ancient tradition,* she answer'd, ' a tale 

* Often told — a position too sure to prevail 

* In the end of all legends of love. If we wrote, 

* When we first love, foreseeing that hour yet re- 

mote 
' Wherein of necessity each would recall 
' From the other the poor foolish records of all 

* Those emotions, whose pain, when recorded, seem'd 

bliss, 

* Should we write as we wrote ? But one thinka 

not of this ! 

* At twenty (who does not at twenty ?) we write 

* Believing eternal the frail vows we plight ; 
' And we smile with a confident pity, above 
' The vulgar results of all poor human love : 

* For we deem, with that vanity common to youth, 

* Because what we feel in our bosoms, in truth, 
'• Is novel to us — that 't is novel to earth, 

* And will prove the exception in durance and 

worth, 
f To the great law to which all on earth must In- 
cline. 

* The error was noble, the vanity fine I 

* Shall we blame it because we survive it ? ah, no ; 

* "T was the youth of our youth, my lord, is it not 

so?' 



She look'd at Lord Alfred. No word he replied ; 
He was startled, and felt stunn'd, scared, stupefied. 



Oaxto III.] LUCILE. 77 

This cold, keen philosophy, trenchant as steel, 
On the lips of a woman so young as Lucile, 
Appall'd him. He seem'd to remember her yet 
A child — the weak sport of each moment's regret, 
Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life, 
The deceptions of youth, and borne down by the 

strife 
And the tumult of passion ; the tremulous toy 
Of each transient emotion of grief or of joy. 
But to watch her pronounce the death-warrant of 

all 
The illusions of life — lift, unflinching, the pall 
From the bier of the dead Past — that woman so 

fair. 
And so young, yet her own self-survivor; who 

there 
Traced her life's epitaph with a finger so cold I 
*T was a picture that touch'd him with pain to 

behold. 
He himself knew — none better — the things to 

be said 
Upon subjects like this. Yet he bow'd down his 

head : 
He had not the courage, he dared not decide 
To aid that frail hand to the heart's suicide. 



As thus, with a trouble he could not command. 
He paused, crumpling the letters he held in his 

hand, 
' You know me enough,' she continued, ' or what 
J would say is, you yet recollect (do you not. 
Lord Alfred '?) enough of my nature, to know 

* That these pledges of what was perhaps long ago 

* A foolish affection, I do not recall 

' From those motives of prudence which actuate all 

* Or most women, when their love ceases. Indeed, 
' If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I need 

' But remind you that ten years these letters have 
rested 



78 LUCILE [Paut 1 

* Unreclaim'd in your hands, nor should I have 

suggested 
» Their return, if I had not, from all that I hear, 

* Fear'd those letters might now (might they not ?) 

interfere 

* With the peace of another/ 



Lord Alfred looked up, 
(His gaze had been fix'd on a blue Sevres cup 
With a look of pmfound connoisseurship — a smile 
Of singular interest and care, all this while) 
He look'd up, and look'd long in the face of Lucile, 
To mark if that face by a sign would reveal 
At the thought of Miss Darcy the least jealous pain. 
He look'd keenly and long, yet he look'd there in 

vain. 
The face was calm, cheerful, reserv'd, and precise ; 

* Is this woman,' he thought, ' changed to diamond 

or ice ? ' 

* You are generous. Madam,' he murmur'd at last, 
And into his voice a light irony pass'd, 

* If these be indeed the sole motives you feel.* 

* What others but these could I have ? ' said Lucile 

* I might,' answer'd Alfred, * presume, if I did 

' Wish to call into question (which Heaven forbid !) 
' The generous feelings that find me — bf lieve — 

* Most grateful — these letters you wish'd to receive 

* From personal motives — * 

She laugh'd at the word. 

* Were it not somewhat late to have these ? O my 

lord, 
*Had I waited, indeed, for . . . (what is it you 
say ?) 

* Such " personal motives" (your vfords) till to-dayt 

* Would }'ou not, of a truth, have experienced ont 

touch 



Canto in.] LUCILE. 79 

' Of dreadful remorse ? ' 

* You embarrass me much,' 
HepHed Alfred. He spoke with assurance, for here 
lie recovcr'd his ground, and had nothing to fear. 
lie had look'd for repi'oaches, and fully arranged 
His forces. But straightway the enemy changed 
The position. 



' Come ! ' gayly she here interposed^ 
With a smile whose divinely deep sweetness dis- 
closed 
Some depth in her nature he never had known, 
While she tenderly laid her light hand on his own, 

* Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain 

' Justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in 
vain. 

* From me not a single reproach can you hear. 

' I have sinn'd to myself — to the world — nay, I 
fear 

* To you chiefly. The woman who loves should, 

indeed, 

* Be the guide of the man that she loves. She 

should heed 
' Not her selfish and often mistaken desires, 

* But his interest whose fate her own interest in- 

spires ; 

* And, rather than seek to allure, for her sake, 

* His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake 
' Of impossible destinies, use all her art 

' That his place in the world find its place in her 

heart. 
' I, alas ! — I perceived not this truth till too late ; 

* I tormented your youth, I have darkened youi 

fate. 

* Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake 
' Of ltd long expiation ! ' 



80 LUCILE. [Part 1 



Lord Alfred, awake, 
Seem'd to wander from dream on to dream. In 

that seat 
Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet 
His accuser, he found himself turn'd by some 

change. 
As surprising and all unexpected as strange. 
To the judge from whose mercy indulgence waa 

sought. 
All the world's foolish pride in that moment was 

naught ; 
He fell all his plausible theories posed ; 
And, thrill'd by the beauty of nature disclosed 
In the pathos of all he had witness'd, his head 
And his knee he bow'd humbly, and faltering said, 
' Ah, Madam ! I feel that I never till now 
' Comprehended you — never ! I blush to a row 
* That I have not deserved you.' 



' No, no ! ' answer'd she ; 

* When you knew me, I was not what now I may be. 

* Could the past be transferr'd, were I now to re- 

ceive 

* The love of a man whom the world loves, be- 

lieve ' — 

(Thought Alfred, — * O hypocrite ! loved and adored 
By a duke, a grand seigneur, the fi^shion's gay 
lord!') 

' Believe,' she resumed, ' if I had to dispose 
' Of his life in the world where his fame should 
repose, 

* I think I should know how to help his career, 

* And to add to its happiness - 

* I once sought, to destroy it.' 



Canto ni.J luclle. 81 

' Is this an advance ? ' 
'ITiougbt Lord Alfred, and raised with a passionate 

glance 
The hand of Lucile to his lips. 

'T was a hand 
White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland. 
The hand of a woman is often, in youth, 
Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat grace- 
less in truth ; 
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, 
Or as Sorrow has cross'd the life-hne in the palm ? 



The more that he look'd, that he Hsten'd, the more 
He discover'd perfections unnoticed before. 
Whatever of strangeness, and wildness, and pride 
She retained in her character, now undescried 
In the depths of her being, naught outAvard be- 

tray'd ; 
Not a look tliat she look'd, not a word that she said. 
Less salient than once, less poetic perchance, 
This woman who thus had survived the romance 
That had made him its hero, and breathed him its 

sighs, 
Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to his 

eyes. 
Alfred Vargrave forgot, ere an hour was thus gone, 
All the years which between their existence had 

flov/u. I 

Nay, the whole of his life was forgotten. He seem'd 
With some woman unknown till that hour ; he half 

deem'd 
That they met in that hour for the first time ; and 

thought 
That love at first sight from such eyes might be 

caujrht. 



Together they talk'd of the years since when last 
6 



82 LUCILE. [Pam I 

They parted, contrasting the present, the past. 
Yet no memory marr'd their light converse. Lucile 
Question'd much, with the interest a sister might 

feel, 
Of Lord Alfred's new life, — of Mss Darcy — her 

face, 
Her temper, accomplishments — pausing to trace 
The advantage derived from a hymen so fit. 
Of herself, she recounted with humour and wit 
Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands 
She had seen, and the books she had read, and the 

hands 
She had shaken. 

In all that she said there appear'd 
An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd 
The temple of reason, with ever a touch 
Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much 
As there gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals 

bear. 
Thro' the blooms of a garland the point of a spear. 
But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this. 
To that soul, whose experience had paralyzed bliss, 
A benignant indulgence, to all things resign'd, 
A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind, 
Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint 
And serene as the halo encircling a saint. 



Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by. 
I'o each novel sensation spontaneously 
He abandon'd himself with that ardor so strange 
"Which belongs to a mind grown accustom'd to 

change. 
He sought, with well-practised and delicate art, 
To surprise from Lucile the true state of her heart , 
But his efforts were vain, and the woman, as ever, 
More adroit than the man, baffled every endeavour. 
When he deem'd he had touch'd on some chord m 



Canto III.] lucile. 83 

At tlie touch, it dissolved, and was gone. Evei 

fleeing 
As ever he near it advanced, when he thought 
To have seized, and proceeded to analyze aught 
Of the moral existence, the absolute soul. 
Light as vapour the phantom escaped his controL 



From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was heard. 
In the passage without a quick footstep there 

stirr'd. 
At the door knock'd the n egress, and thrust in her 

head, 

* The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd,' she said, 

* And insisted ' — 

' The Duke 1 * cried Lucile (as she spoke 
The Duke's footsteps approaching a light echo 
woke). 

* Say I do not receive till the evening. Explain,* 
As she glanced at Lord Alfred, she added again, 

' I have business of private importance.' 

There came 
O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that 

name. 
An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'd 
To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'd 
On her face an indefinite, look of confusion. 
On his mind instantaneously flash'd the conclusion 
That his presence had caused it. 

He said, with a sneer 
Which he could not repress, ' Let not me interfere 

* With the claims on your time, lady 1 when you 

are free 

* From more pleasant engagements, allow me to see 
' And to wait on you later.' 

The words were not said 
Ere he wish'd to recall them. He bitterly read 
The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye. 
InoUning her head, as in haughty reply, 



84 LUCILE. [Part I 

More reproachful perchance than all utter'd rebuke, 
She said merely, resuming her seat, ' Tell the Duke 
* He may enter.* 

And vex'd with his own words av:d hers, 
Alfred Vargrave bow'd low to Lucile de Nevers, 
Pass'd the casement and enter'd the garden. Before 
His shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door. 



When left to his thoughts in the garden alone, 
Alfred Vargrave stood, strange to himself. With 

dull tone 
Of importance, thro' cities of rose and carnation, 
Went the bee on his business from station to station. 
The minute mirth of summer was shrill all around ,• 
Its incessant small voices like stings seem'd to sound 
On his sore angry sense. He stood grieving the 

hot 
Solid sun with his shadow, nor stirr'd from {he spot. 
The last look of Lucile still bewilder'd, v:erplex'd, 
And reproach'd him. The Duke's visit goaded and 

vex'd 
And disturb'd him. At length, he resolved to 

remain 
Tn the garden, and call on the Countess again 
As soon as the Duke went. In sliort, he would 

stay. 
Were it only to know when the Duke went away. 
But just as he form'd this resolve, he perceived 
Approaching towards him, between the thick-leaved 
And luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke. 
Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek for 

some nook 
Whence he might, unobserved, from the garden 

retreat. 
They had not yet seen him. The sound of their 

feet 
And their voices had warn'd him in time. Tb«» 

were walking 



CanIO ra.] LUCILE. 85 

Towards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) wa» 

talking 
With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance 
That they barr'd the sole path to the gateway. No 

chance 
Of escape save in instant concealment 1 Deep- 

dipp'd 
In thick foliage, an arbour stood near. In he 

slipp'd, 
Saved from sight, as in front of that ambush they 

pass'd, 
Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at last 
They paused, and sat down on a bench in the 

shade, 
So close that he could not but hear what they said. 

XXIV. 

The Countess. 

Comment, Monsieur le Due f 

The Duke. 

Ah, forgive ! . . . I desired 
So deeply to see you to-day. You retired 
So early last night from the ball . . . this whole 

week 
I have seen you pale, silent, preoccupied . . . speak, 
Speak, Lucile, and forgive me I ... I know that 

I am 
A rash fool — but I love you 1 I love you, Madame, 
More than language can say 1 Do not deem, O 

Lucile, 
That the love I no longer have strength to conceal 
Is a passing caprice I It is strange to my nature. 
It has made me, unknown to myself, a new crea- 
ture. 
It is not the Duke de Luvois that here kneels 
To the Countess Lucile. 'T is a soul that appeals 
To a soul, 't is a heart that cries out for a heart, 



66 LUCILE. [PabT I 

'T is the man you yourself have created in part, 
That implores you to sanction and save the new life 
Which he lays at your feet with this prayer — Be 

my wife ; 
Stoop, and raise me 1 

Lord Alfred could scarcely restrain 
The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain 
With which he had heard this. As tho* to some 

wind 
The leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels behind 
The Duke and the Countess were suddenly stirr'd. 
The sound half betray'd him. They started. He 

heard 
The low voice of Lucile ; but so faint was its tone 
That her answer escaped him. 

The Duke hurried on, 
As though in remonstrance with what had been 
spoken. 

* Nay, I know it, Lucile 1 but your heart was not 

broken 

* By the trial in which all its fibres were proved. 

* Love, perchance, you mistrust, yet you need to be 

loved. 

* You mistake your own feelings. I fear you mis- 

take 

* What so ill I interpret, those feelings which make 

* Words like these vague and feeble. AVhatever 

your heart 
' May have suffer'd of yore, this can only impart 

* A pity profound to the love which I feel. 

* Hush ! hush I I know all. Tell me nothing, Lu- 

cHe/ 

You know all, Duke ? * she said ; * well then, kno^ 
that, in truth, 

* I have learn'd from the rude lesson tauglit to mj 

youth 
•From my own heart to shelter my life ; to mistrust 



CASCSO m.] LUCILE. 87 

* The heart of another. We are what we must, 
'And not what we would be. I know that one 

hour 

* Forestalls not another. The wiU and the power 

* Are diverse.' 

* O, madam ! ' he answer'd, * you fcnca 

* With a feeling you know to be true and intense. 
♦*Tis not my life, Lucile, that I plead for alone : 

* If your nature I know, 't is no less for your own. 

* Tliat nature will prey on itself; it was made 

* To influence others. Consider,' he said, 

* You have genius, ambition — what scope for them 

here ? 

* Gifts less noble to me give command of that sphere 

* In which genius is power. Such gifts you despise ? 

* But you do not disdain what such gifts realize 1 

* I offer you, Lady, a name not unknown — 

'A fortune which worthless, without you, is grown -^ 

* All my life at your feet I lay down — at your feet 

* A heart which for you, and you only, can beat.' 

The Countess. 

That heart, Duke, that life — I respect both. The 

name 
And position you offer, and all that you claim 
In behalf of their nobler employment, I feel 
To deserve what, in turn, I now ask you — 

The Dukk. 

Lucile I 

The ComrrEss. 

I ask you to leave me — 

The Dtjke. 

You do not reject ? 

The Countess. 

I ask you to leave me the time to reflect. 



88 LUCILE. [Part I 

Thb Dukb. 

You ask me? — 

The Countess. 

— Tlie time to reflect. 

The Duke. 

Say — One word ^ 
May I hope ? 

What the Countess replied was not heard 
By Lord Alfred ; for just then she rose, and moved 

on. 
The Duke bow'd his lips o'er her hand, and was 

gone. 

XXV. 

Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And when 
Alfred Vargrave reei'd forth to the sunlight again, 
He just saw the white robe of the Coui tess recede 
As she enter'd the house. 

Scarcely conscious indeed • 
Of his steps, he too follow'd, and enter'd. 



He enter'd 

Unnoticed ; Lucile never stu-r'd : so concentred 
And wholly absorbed in her thoughts she appear'd. 
Her back to the window was turn'd. As he ncar'd 
The sofa, her face from the glass was reflected. 
Her dark eyes were fixed on the ground. Pale, 

dejected, 
And lost in profound meditation she seem'd. 
Softly, silently, over her droop'd shoulders stream'd 
The afternoon sunlight. The cry of alarm 
And surprise which escaped her, as now on her arm 
Alfred Vargrave let fall a hand icily cold 
And clammy as death, all too cruelly told 
How far he had been from Iier thov.fd'Jl^ 



GAKTO m.] LUCILE. 89 

XXVII. 

All Ms cheek 
Was disturb'd with tiie effort it cost him to speak. 

* It was not my fault. I have heard all/ he said. 

* Now the letters — and farewell, Lucile 1 When 

you wed 

* May ' — 

The sentence broke short, like a weapon 

that snaps 
Wlien the weight of a man is upon it. 

' Perhaps,* 
Said Lucile (her sole answer reveal'd in the flush 
Of quick colour which up to her brows seem'd to 

rush 
In reply to those few broken words), ' this farewell 
' Is our last, Alfred A^argrave, in life. Who can 

tell ? 
' Let us part without bitterness. Here are your 

letters. 

* Be assured I retain you no more in my fetters ! ' — 
She laugh'd, as she said this, a little sad laugh. 
And stretch'd out her hand with the letters. And 

half 
Wroth to feel his wrath rise, and unable to trust 
His own powers of restraint, in his bosom he 

thrust 
The packet she gave, with a short angry sigh, 
Bow'd his head, and departed without a reply. 



And Lucile was alone. And the men of the worh] 
Were gone back to the world. And the world's 

self was furl'd 
Far away from the heart of the woman. Her hand 
Droop'd, and from it, unloosed from their frail 

silken band, 
Fell those early love-letters, strewn, scatter'd, and 

shed 



yO LUCILE. [PaFwT L 

At her feet — life's lost blossoms ! Dejected, hei 

head 
On her bosom was bow'd. Her gaze vaguely 

stray'd o'er 
Those strewn records of passionate moments no 

more. 
From each page to her sight leapt some word that 

belied 
The composure with which she that day had denied 
Every claim on her heart to those poor perish'd 

years. 
rhey avenged themselves now, and sho burst into 

tears. 



CAJITO IV LUCILE. 91 



CANTO IV. 



LETTER FROM COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED. 

* Bigorre, Thursday. 

* Time up, you rascal ! Come back, or be hang'd. 

* Matilda* grows peevish. Her mother harangued 

* For a whole hour this morning about you. The 

deuce 1 

* What on earth can I say to you ? — nothing 's of 

use. 

* And the blame of the whole of your shocking 

behaviour 

* Falls on we, sir 1 Come back, — do you hear ? — 

or I leave your 

* Affau-s, and abjure you forever. Come back 

* To your anxious betroth'd ; and perplex'd 

'Cousin Jack/ 

n. 

Alfred needed, in truth, no entreaties from John 
To increase his impatience to fly from Serchon. 
All the place was now fraught with sensations of 

pain 
Which, whilst in it, he strove to escape from in 

vain. 
A wild instinct warn'd him to fly from a place 
Where he felt that some fatal event, swiil of pace, 
Was approaching his life. In despite his endeavour 
To think of Matilda, her image forever 
Was effaced from his fancy by that of Lucile. 
From the ground which he stood on he felt himself 

reel. 
Scared, alarm'd by those feelings to which, on tha 

day 



92 LUCILE. [Part I. 

Just before, all Lis heart had so soon given way, 
When he caught, with a strange sense of fear, for 

assistance 
At what was, till then, the great fact in existence, 
'T was a phantom he grasp'd. 



Having sent for his guidft, 
He order'd his horse, and determin'd to ride 
Back forthwith to Bigorre. 

Then, the guide, who well knew 
Every haunt of those hills, said the wild lake of Oo 
Lay a league from Serchon ; and suggested a track 
By the lake to Bigorre, which, traversing the back 
Of the mountain, avoided a circuit between 
Two long valleys; and thinking, ' Perchance change 

of scene 
' May create change of thought,' Alfred Vargravo 

agreed. 
Mounted horse, and set forth to Bigorre at full 

speed. 



His guide rode beside him. 

The king of the guides 1 
The great Bernard himself I ever boldly he rides. 
Ever gayly he sings ! For to him, from of old. 
The hills have confided their secrets, and told 
Where the white partridge lies, and the cock o* 

the woods; 
Where the izard flits fine through the cold soli' 

tudes ; 
Where the bear lurks perdu ; and the lynx on hia 

prey 
At nightfall descends, when the mountains are 

gray ; 
Where the sassafras blooms, and the bluebell is 

born. 
And the wild rhododendron first reddens at morn 



CAJm) IV.J LUCILE. 93 

Where the source of the waters is fine as a thread, 
How the storm on the wild Maladetta is spread ; 
"Where the thunder is hoarded, the snows lie 

asleep, 
Whence the torrents are fed, and the cataracts 

leap ; 
And, familiarly known in the hamlets, the vales 
Elave whisper'd to him all their thousand love-tales^ 
He has laugh'd with the girls, he has leap'd with 

the boys ; 
Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoys 
An existence untroubled by envy or strife. 
While he feeds on the dews and the juices of life. 
And so lightly he sings, and so gayly he rides, 
For Bernard le Sauteur is the king of all 

guides ! 



But Bernkrd found, that day, neither song nor 

love-tale. 
Nor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend avail 
To arouse from his deep and profound reverie 
Him that silent beside him rode fast as could be. 



Ascending the mountain they slacken'd their speed, 

And the prospect that met them was wondrous 
indeed ! 

The breezy and pure inspirations of morn 

Breath'd about them. The scarp'd ravaged moun- 
tains, all worn 

By the torrents, whose course they watch'd faintly 
meander. 

Were alive with the diamonded shy salamander. 

Thej- paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses, 

And wound through a region of green wilder- 
nesses ; 

The waters went wirbling above and around. 

The forests hung heap'd in their shadows profound. 



94 LUCILE. [Part L 

Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, 
Which the Demon of Tempest, descending upon, 
Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazcaux 
They mark'd ; and far down in the sunshine below, 
Half dipp'd in a valley of airiest blue. 
The white happy homes of the village of Oo, 
"Where the age is yet golden. 

And high over head 
The wrecks of the combat of Titans were spread. 
Red granite and quartz, in the alchemic sun, 
Fused their splendours of crimson and crystal in 

one; 
And deep in the moss gleam'd the delicate shells. 
And the dew linger'd fresh in the heavy harebells ; 
The large violet burn'd ; the campanula blue ; 
And Autumn's own flower, the saffron, peer'd 

through 
The wild rhododendrons and thick sassafras ; 
And fragrant with thyme was the delicate grass ; 
And high up, and higher, and highest of all, 
The secular phantom of snow 1 

O'er the wall 
Of a deep and circuitous valley below. 
That aerial spectre, reveal'd in the glow *^ 
Of the great golden dawn, hovers faint on the eye 
And appears to grow in, and grow out of, the sky, 
AnJ pla}^s with the fancy, and baffles the sight. 
Only reach'd by the first rosy ripple of light. 
And the cool star of eve, the Imperial Thing, 
Half unreal, like some mythological king 
That dominates all in a ftible of old. 
Takes command of a valley as fair to behold 
As aught in old fables ; and, seen or unseen, 
Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and serene 
Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are furl'd 
'Mid the clouds beyond which spreads the infinite 

world 
Of man's last aspirations, — unfathom'd, untrod. 
Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God. 



Canto IV.] LUCILE. 



Meanwliile, as they journey'd, that serpentine road, 

Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly sbow'd 

A gay cavalcade some few feet in advance. 

Allred Vargrave's heart beat; for he saw at a 
glance 

The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next 
look 

Show'd him, joyously ambling beside her, the 
Duke. 

The rest of the troop which had thus caught his 
ken 

He knew not, nor noticed them (women and men). 

They were laughing and talking together. Soon 
after 

By his sudden appearance suspending their laugh- 
ter, 

He found himself close to Lucile. 

She look*d scared. 

A faint cry escaped her. Her horse slightly rear'd. 

vin. 

* You here I ... I imagined you far on your way 

* To Bigorre 1 ' . . . she exclaim'd. ' What has 

caused you to stay ? ' 

* I am on my way to Bigorre,* he replied, 

' But, since my way would seem to be yours, let 
me ride 

* For one moment beside you.* And then, with a 

stoop. 
At her ear, . . . ♦ and forgive me ! ' 

IX. 

By this time the troop 
Had regather'd its numbers. 

The Countess was pale 
Aa the cloud 'neath theu* feet, on its way to th(^ 
vale. 



96 LUCILE. [Part Jl 

Tlie Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side, 
For even one moment, the whole of the ride. 
Alfred smiled, as he thought 'he is jealous of 

her 1' 
And the thought of this jealousy added a spur 
To his firm resolution and eflbrt to please. 
He talk'd much ; he was witty, and quite at his 



After noontide, the clouds, which bad traversed 
the east 

Half the day, gather'd closer, and rose and in- 
creased 

The air changed and chill'd. As though out of 
the ground, 

There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound, 

And the wind rose. The guides sniff'd, like cha- 
mois, the air, 

And look'd at each other, and halted, and there 

Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The 
white 

Aspens rustled, and turn'd up their frail leaves in 
fright. 

All announced the approach of the tempest. 

Erelong, 

Thick darkness descended the mountains among ; 

And a vivid, vindictive, and serpentine flash 

Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a 
gash. 

The rain fell in large, heavy drops. And anon 

Broke the thunder. 

The horses took fright, every one. 

The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight. 

The guides shouted. The band was obhged to 
alight ; 

And, dispersed up the perilous pathway, walk'd 
blind 

To the darkness before from the darkness behind- 



CAirio IV.l LUCILB. 91 



And the Storm is abroad in the mountains ! 

He fills 
The crouch'd hollows and all the oraculkr hills 
With dread voices of power. A roused million or 

more 
Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoar 
Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake 
Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves livid the 

lake. 
And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder de- 
scends 
From invisible lands, o'er those black mountain 

ends; 
He howls as he hounds down his prey ; and his 

lash 
Tears the hair of the timorous wild mountain ash, 
That clings to the rocks, with her garments all torn, 
Like a woman in fear; then he blows his hoarse 

horn. 
And is off, the fierce guide of destruction and ter- 
ror, 
Up the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate error 
Of mountain and mist. 



There is war in the skies I 
Lo ! the black-winged legions of tempest arise 
O'er those sharp splinter'd rocks that are gleaming 

below 
In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though 
Some seraph burn'd through them, the thunderbolt 

searching 
Which the black cloud unbosom'd just now. Lo ! 

the lurching 
And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seem 
To waver above, in the dark ; and yon stream, 
How it hurries and roars, on its way to the white 
7 



98 LUCILE. [Part I 

And paralyzed lake tliere, appall'd at the sight 
Of the things seen in heaven ' 



Through the darkness and awa 
Tliat had gather'd around him, Lord Alfred now 

saw, 
Keveal'd in the fierce and evanishing glare 
Of the lightning that momently pulsed through tha 

air, 
A woman alone on a shelf of the hill, 
With her cheek coldly propp'd on her hand, — and 

as still 
As the rock that she sat on, which beetled above 
The black lake beneath her. 

All terror, all love 
Added speed to the instinct with which he rush'd 

on. 
For one moment the blue lightning swathed the 

whole stone 
In its lurid embrace : like the sleek dazzling snake 
That encircles a sorceress, charm'd for her sake 
And luU'd by her loveliness ; fawning, it play'd 
And caressingly twined round the feet and the 

head 
Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and calra 
As the soul of that solitude, listing the psalm 
Of the plangent and labouring tempest roll slow 
From the caldron of midnight and vapour below. 
Next moment, from bastion to bastion, all round, 
Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the 

sound 
Of the battering thunder's indefinite peal, 
And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile- 

XIV. 

She started. Once more, with its flickering wand, 
The lightning approach'd her. In terror, her hand 
Alfred Vargrave had seized within his ; and he felt 



CANro IV.S LUCILE. 99 

The light fingers that coldly and lingeringly dwelt 
In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. 

* See ! see 

* Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled 

yon tree I 
She exclaimed, ... * like the passion that brings on 
its breath, 

* To the being it embraces, destruction and death 1 
' Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is round you ! ' 

' Lucile 1 

* I hear — I see — naught but yourself. I can feel 

* Nothing here but your presence. My pride fights 

in vain 

* With the truth that leaps from me. We two meet 

again 
' 'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above 

* To avenge if I lie when I swear that I love, — 

* Aul beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, 

* I humble my head and my heart. I entreat 

* Your pardon, Lucile, for the past — I implore 

* For the future your mercy — implore it with more 
' Of passion than prayer ever breath'd. By the 

power 

* Which invisibly touches us both in this hour, 

* By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand ' — 

* The rights ! ' . . . said Lucile, and drew from him 

her hand. 

'Yes, the rights! for what greatftf to man may 

belong 
' Than the right to repair in the future the wrong 
' To the past ? and the wrong I have done you, of 

yore, 

* Hath bequeathed to me all the sad ri^ht to restore, 
'To retrieve, to amend 1 I, who mjured youi 

life, 
' Urge \he right to repair it, Lucile ! Be my wife, 
' My guide, my good aagel, my all apon eartb, 



100 LUCILE. [Part 1 

• And accept, for the sake of what yet may give 

worth 

* To my life, its contrition ! ' 



He paused, for there cama 
0*er the cheek of the Countess a llu^h like the 

flame 
That illumin'd at moments the darkness o'erhead. 
With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she said, 
* And your pledge to another ? ' 



' Hush, hush I ' he exclaim'd, 
*My honour will live where my love lives, un- 
shamed. 

* *T were poor honour indeed, to another to give 

* That life of which you keep the heart. Could I 

live 
*In the light of those young eyes, suppressing a 
lie? 

* Alas, no ! your hand holds my whole destiny. 

* I can never recall what my lips have avow'd I 

* In your love lies whatever can render me proud. 

* For the great crime of all my existence hath been 

* To have known you in vain. And the duty best 

seen, 
*And most hallow'd — the duty most sacred and 
sweet 

* Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet. 

* O speak ! and restore me the blessing I lost 

* When I lost you — my pearl of all pearls beyond 

cost I 

* And restore to your own life its youth, and restore 

* The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore 1 

* Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of tiia 

world, 
*When our souls their white wings yet exulting 
unfurl'd 1 



Casto 1\ 1 LUCILE. 101 

* For your ojos rest no more on the unquiet man, 

* The wild star of whose course its pale orbit out* 

ran, 

* Whom the formless, indefinite future of youth, 
MVith its lyino; allurements, distracted. In truth 

* I have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel 

* That the least of your lovely regards, O Lucile, 

* Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream 

* Which, though foUow'd forever, forever doth 

seem 
' As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore 

* "When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shore 

* Of life's untraversed ocean 1 I know the sole 

path 

* To repose which my desolate destiny hath 

* Is the path by whose course to your feet I return. 

* And who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern, 

' And so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, 
' The sublimity in you, as he whom at length 

* These have saved from himself, for the truth they 

reveal 

* To his worship ? * 



She spoke not ; but Alfred could feet 
The light hand and arm, that upon him reposed. 
Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were 

half closed ; 
But, under theu* languid, mysterious fringe, 
A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge 
Of faint inward fire flush'd transparvjntly through 
The dehcate, pallid, and pure olive hue 
Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. . The rich 

bosom 
Heaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled ros©' 

blossom 
A bee is imprison 'd, and struggles. 



102 LUCiLE. [Part l 



Mean-while 
The sun, in Ms setting, sent up the last smile 
Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, behold ! 
O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold. 
Rose and rested : while far up the dim airy crags, 
Its artillery silenced, its banners in rags. 
The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat 
Drew oif slowly, receding in silence, to meet 
The powers of the night, which, now gathering 

afar, 
Had already sent forward one bright, single star. 
The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair. 
From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to 

wear. 
Had escaped ; and Lord Alfred now cover'd with 

kisses 
The redolent warmth of those long falling tresses. 
Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not 

yet 
Had ceased falling around them ; when, splash d, 

drench'd, and wet. 
The Due de Luvois down the rough mountain 

course 
Approach'd them as fast as the road, and his horse, 
Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had 

just now 
Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow 
Of the storm-haunted mountain his master had 

thrown ; 
But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to % 

stone. 
And the horse, being bred to the instinct which 

fills 
Tlie breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills, 
Had scrambled again to his feet; and now master 
And horse bore about them the signs of disaster, 
As they heavily footed their way through the mist, 



GAiao IV.] LuciLE. 103 

The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his 

wrist, 
Bruised and bleeding. 



If ever your feet, like my own, 
O reader, have travers'd these mountains alone, 
Have you felt your identity shrink and contract 
At the sound of the distant and dim cataract, 
In the presence of nature's immensities ? Say, 
Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with ita 

spray, 
And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd. 
Like a huge couchant Typhon, fold heap'd over 

fold, 
Track'd the summits, from which every step that 

you tread 
Eolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the 

bed 
Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound 
Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound ? 
And, labouring onwards, at last through a break 
In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake ? 

If you have, this description I might have with- 
held. 

X"ou remember how strangely your bosom has 
swell'd 

At the vision reveal'd. On the overwork'd soil 

Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil ; 

And one seems, by the pain of ascending the 
height. 

To have conquer'd a claim to that wonderful sight. 



Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo I 

Hail, Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and tha 

snow ! 
Foi o'er thee the antrels have whiten'd their winga, 



104 LUCLLE. [Pari i 

And the thirst of the seraphs is quench'd at thy 

springs. 
What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse ? 
When the breath of creation first fashion'd fair 

France, 
Did the Spirit of HI, in his downthrow appalling, 
Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin whilo 

falling ? 
Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster 

unnamed 
The base of thy mountainous pedestal framed ? 
And later, when Power to Beauty was wed, 
Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bed 
With the fragile valerian and wild columbine ? 



But thy secret thou keepest, and I will keep mine ; 
For once, gazing on thee, it flash'd on my soul, 
All that secret ! I saw in a vision the whole 
Vast design of the ages ; what was and shall be ! 
Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mystery 
For one moment. I saw, and I heard ; and my 

heart 
Bore witness within me to infinite art, 
In infinite power proving infinite love ; 
Caught the great choral chant, mark'd the dread 

pageant move — 
The divine Whence and Whither of life I But, O 

daughter 
Of Oo, not more safe in the deep, silent water 
Is thy secret, than mine in my heart. Even so. 
What I then saw and heard the world never shall 

know. 



The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed, 
The rain had ceased falling, the mountains reposed. 
The stars had enkindled in luminous courses 
Their slow-sliding lamps, when, remounting thcli 
horses. 



CA.NTO IV.] LUCILE. 1j5 

The riflers rc-travers'd that miglity serration 
Of rockwork. Thus left to its own desolation, 
The lake, from whose glimmering limits the last 
Transient pomp of the pageants of sunset had 

pass'd, 
Drew into its bosom the darkness, and only- 
Admitted within it one image — a lonely 
And tremulous phantom of ilickering light 
That foUow'd the mystical moon through the nighi 



It was late when o'er Serchon at last they de- 
scended. 
To her chalet, in silence. Lord Alfred attended 
The Countess. At parting she whisper'd him low, 

* You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I know 

* All the worth of, believe me. I cannot reply 

* Without tune for reflection. Good night 1 — not 

good by.' 

* Alas ! 't is the very same answer you made 

* To the Due de Luvois but a day since,' he said. 

* No, Alfred ! the very same, no,' she replied. 

Her voice shook. 'If you love me, obey me. 
Abide 

* My answer, to-morrow.* 



Alas, cousin Jack I 
You Cassandra in breeches and boots 1 turn jout 

back 
To the riins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory 
Amongst thine own people. 

I follow my story. 



^08 LUCILE. f P> «T L 



CANTO V. 



Up ! — forth again, Pegasus ! — ' Many 's the slip,' 
Hath the proverb well said, ''twLxt the cup and 

the lip I * 
How blest should we be, have I often conceived. 
Had we really achieved what we nearly achieved I 
We but catch at the skirts of the thing we woula 

be. 
And fall back on the lap of a false destiny. 
So it will be, so has been, since this world began I 
And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man 
Is the part which he never hath fully play'd out : 
For the first and last word in life's volume is- 

Doubt. 
The face the most fair to our vision allow'd 
Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. 
The thought that most thrills our existence is one 
Which, before we can frame it in language, is gone. 
O Horace 1 the rustic still rests by the river. 
But the river Hows on, and flows past him forever ! 
Who can sit down, and say . . . ' What I will be, 

IwiU"? 
Who stand up, and affirm . . . ' What I was, I ara 

^still'? 
Who is it that must not, if question'd, say . . . 

* What 
* I would have remain'd, or become, I am not ' ? 
We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside 
Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide 
And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone 
Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone, 
Do the Danaids ply, ever vainly, the sieve. 
Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give* 



Canto V.J LUCILE. 107 

Yet there 's none so unhappy but what he hath 

been 
Just about to be happy at some time, I ween ; 
And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, 
But what, once in his life, some minute circum- 
stance 
Would have fully sufficed to secure him the bliss 
Which, missing: it then, he forever must miss. 
And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave, 
Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would 

have ; 
But, as though by some strange imperfection in fate, 
The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too 

late. 
The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, 
And beliind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. 
Yes I there 's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the 

But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, 
Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the 

wine 
Spilt, one deep health I 'U pledge, and that health 

shall be thine, 
O being of beauty and bliss 1 seen and known 
In the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone ! 
My days know thee not ; and my lips name thee 

never. 
Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. 
A\'e have met : we have parted. No more is re- 
corded 
In m}' annals on earth. This alone was afforded 
To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to 

be. 
But, far down, in the depths of my life's mystery, 
(Like the siren that under the deep ocean dwells, 

. the w 

swells, 
Cannot stir in the calm of her coralline halls, 
'Mid the world's adamantine and dim pedestals ; 



108 LUCILE [Part I 

At wliose feet sit the sylplis and sea fairies; foi 

•whom 
The almandine glimmers, the soft samphu'oa 

bloom) — 
Thou abldest and reignest for ever, O Queen 
Of that better world which thou swayest unseen ! 
My one perfect mistress ! my all things in all ! 
Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call : 
For the seraphs have named thee to me in my 

sleep, 
And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. 
But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair, 
And its thoughts are the purest — belov'd, thou art 

there T 
And whatever is noblest in aught that I do, 
Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. 
The world gave thee not to me, no ! and the world 
Cannot take thee away from me now. I have 

furl'd 
The wings of my spirit about thy bright head ; 
At thy feet are my soul's immortalities spread. 
Thou mightest have been to me much. Thou art 

more. 
And in silence I worship, in darkness adore. 
If life be not that which without us we find — 
Chance, accident, merely — but rather the mind. 
And the soul which, within us, surviveth these 

things. 
If our real existence have truly its springs 
Less in that which we do than in that which W6 

feel, 
Not in vain do I worship, not hopeless I kneel I 
For then, though I name thee not mistress or 

wife. 
Thou art mine — and mine only, — O life of my 

life 1 
And though many 's the slip 'twixt the cup and the 

lip, 
Tet while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip, 



Cajjto v.] lucile. 109 

While there 's life on the lip, while there s warmth 

in the wiue, 
One deep health I '11 pledge, and that health shall 

be thine 1 



This world, on whose peaceable breast we repose 
Unconvulsed by alarm, once confused in the throea 
Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry, 
And in fiery fusion commix'd earth and sky. 
Time cool'd it, and calni'd it, and taught it to go 
The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. 
The wind changeth and whirleth continually : 
All the rivers run down and run into the sea : 
The wind whirleth about, and is presently still'd : 
All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not fiU'd : 
The sun goeth forth from his chambers : the sun 
Ariseth, and lo ! he descendeth anon. 
All returns to its place. Use and Habit are powers 
Far stronger than Passion, in this world of ours. 
The great laws of life readjust their infraction, 
And to every emotion appoint a reaction. 



Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving Lucile, 
To review the rash step he had taken, and feel 
What the world would have call'd ^his erroneous 

position.' 
Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recogni- 
tion : 
Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out 
On the coat which we once wore with pleasure no 

doubt, 
Sends us in his account for the garment we bought. 
-Ev'ry spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought. 



He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel 
Little doubt what the answer would be from I/UCiIo. 



no LUCILE. [Part 1 

Her eyes, when they parted — her voice, when 

they met, 
Still enraptured his heart, which they haunted. 

And yet, 
Though, exulting, he deem'd himself loved, where 

he loved, 
Through his mind a vague self-accusation there 

moved. 
O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would rise 
Tlie infantine face of Matilda, with eyes 
So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, 
That his heart fail'd within him. In vain did he 

find 
A thousand just reasons for what he had done : 
The vision that troubled him would not be gone. 
In vain did he say to himself, and with truth, 

* Matilda has beauty, and fortune, and youth ; 

* And her heart is too young to have deeply in- 

volved 

* All its hopes in the tie which must now be dis- 

solved. 

* 'T were a false sense of honour in me to suppress 
' The sad truth which I owe it to her to confess. 

* And what reason have I to presume this poor life 

* Of my own, with its languid and frivolous strife, 

* And without what alone might endear it to her, 

* Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer, 

' That a woman need weep to resign it ? 'T will bo 

* The brief, angry surprise of a moment, and she, 
' Who can never lack suitors more worthy than I, 

* In a year will recall, without even a sigh, 

* This broken engagement. 

< It is not aa though 
'1 were bound to some poor village maiden, I 

know, 
*Unto whose simple heart mine wer>» al! upon 

earth, 

* Or to whose simple fortunes mj owi ^oul(] giva 

worth. 



CAXrO v.] LUCILE. Ill 

' Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not miss 
* Aught that I could procure her. 'T is best as 
it is I' 



In vain did he say to himself, ' WTien I came 
' To this fatal spot, I had nothing to blame 
' Or reproach myself for in the thoughts of my 
heart. 

* I could not foresee that its pulses would start 

* Into such strange emotion on seeing once more 

* A woman I left with indifference before. 

' I believed, and with honest conviction believed, 
' In my love for Matilda. I never conceived 
*That another could shake it. I deem'd I had 

done 
■* With the wild heart of youth, and look'd hope- 
fully on 

* To the soberer manhood, the worthier life, 

* Which I sought in the love that I vow'd to my 

wife. 

' Poor child I she shall learn the whole truth. She 
shall know 

' What I knew not myself but a few days ago. 

' The world wiU console her — her pride will sup- 
port — 

* Her youth will renew its emotions. In short, 
' There is nothing in me that Matilda will miss 

* When once we have parted. 'T is best as it is I 



But in vam did he reason and argue, Alas I 
He yet felt unconvinced that 't was best as it was. 
Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise 
That infantine face of Matilda, with eyes 
So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, 
That they haiTOw'd his heart and distracted his 
mind. 



112 LUCILE. [Part 1 



m. 

And then, when he turn'd from these thoughts to 

Lucile, 
Though his heart rose enraptured, he could not 

but feel 
A vague sense of awe of her nature. Behind 
All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind, 
Which he saw and revered in her, something un- 
known 
And unseen in her nature still troubled his own. 
He felt that Lucile penetrated and prized 
Whatever was noblest and best, though disguised, 
In himself; but he did not feel sure that he knew, 
Or completely possess'd, what, half-hidden from 

view, 
Remaln'd lofty and lonely in lier. 

Tlien, her life, 
So untamed, and so free 1 would she yield, as a 

wife, 
Independence, long claim'd as a woman? Her 

name, 
So link'd by the world with that spurious fame 
Which the beauty and wit of a woman assert. 
In some measure, alas 1 to her own loss and hurt 
In the serious thoughts of a man ! . . . . This re- 
flection 
O'er the love which he felt cast a shade of dejec 

tion, 
From which he forever escaped to the thought 
Doubt could reach not . . . . ' I love her and all 
else is naught I ' 



His hand trembled strangely in breaking the seal 
Of the letter which rcach'd him at last from Lucile. 
At the sight of the very first word that he read. 
That letter dropp'd down from his liand like th? 
dead 



CAOTO V.J LUCII.E. 113 

Leaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked and 

bare 
A desolate tree in a wide wintry air. 
He pass'd his hand hurriedly over his eyes, 
Bewilder'd, incredulous. Angry surprise 
And dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. 

Anon 
He pick'd up the page, and read rapidly on. 



THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO LORD ALFRED 
VARGRAVE. 

« No, Alfred! 

' If over the present, when last 

* We two met, rose the glamour and mist of the 

past, 

* It hath now roll'd away, and our two paths are 

plain, 

* And those two paths divide us. 

' That hand which again 

* Mine one moment hath clasp'd, as the hand of a 

brother, 

* That hand and your honour are pledged to 

another 1 

* Forgive, Alfred Yargrave, fbrgive me, if yet 

* For that moment (now past I) I have made you 

forget 
♦What was due to yourself and that other one. 

Yes, 
*Mine the fault, and be mine the repentance ! Not 

less, 

* In now owning this fault, Alfred, let me own, too, 

* I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. 

* True, 

* That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I sought, 
*I alone I But, oh, deem not it was with the 

thought 

* Or your heart to regain, or the past to re waken. 

8 



114 LUCILE. [Part 1 

*Nol believe me, i(j was with the finn and un" 

shaken 

* Conviction, at least, that our meeting would be 

* Without peril to you, although haply to me 

* The salvation of all my existence. 

' I own, 

* When the rumour first reach'd me, which L'ghtly 

made known 
' To the world your engagement, my heart and my 
mind 

* Suffer'd torture intense. It was cruel to find 

* That so much of the life of my life, half unknown 

* To myself, had been silently settled on one 

* Upon whom but to think it would soon be a 

crime. 

* Then I said to myself, " From the thraldom which 

time 
* " Hath not weaken'd there rests but one hope of 

escape. 
* " That image which Fancy seems ever to shape 
* " From the solitude left round the ruins of yore, 
* " Is a phantom. The Being I loved is no more. 

* " What I hear in the silence, and see in the lone 

* " Void of life, is the young hero born of my oWn 

* " Perish'd youth : and his image, serene and 
sublime, 

* " In my heart rests unconscious of change and of 

time. 
* " Could I see it but once more, as time and ai 
change 

* " Have made it, a thing unfamiliar and strange, 

* " See, indeed, that the Being I loved in my youth 
* " Is no more, and what rests now is only, in truth, 
* " The hard pupil of life and the world : then, oh, 

then, 
*"I should wake from a dream, and my life be 

again 
" Reconciled to the world ; and, released fi^om 

regret, 



CAITTO v.] LUCILE. 115 

* " Take the lot fate accords to my choice.'* 

* So we met. 

* But the danger I did not foresee has occurr'd . 
*The danger, alas, to yourself 1 I have crr'd. 

* But happy for both that this error hath been 
' Discovcr'd as soon as the danger was seen 1 

* We meet, Alfred Vargrave, no more. I, indeed, 

' Shall be far from Serchon when this letter you 
read. 

* My course is decided ; my path I discern : 
' Doubt is over ; my future is fix'd now. 

' Return, 

* O return to the young living love 1 Whence, 

alas! 

* If, one moment, you wander'd, think only it was 
' More deeply to bury the past love. 

^ 'And, oh! 

* Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I, where I go 

* On my far distant pathway through life, shall 

rejoice 
' To treasure in memory all that your voice 
' Has avow'd to me, all in which others have clothed 
'To my fancy with beauty and worth your be- 
trothed 1 

* In the fair morning light, in the orient dew 

* Of that young hfe, now yours, can you fail to 

renew 

* All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth, 
*The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest 

youth ? 

* Yes ! you will be happy. I, too, in the bliss 

* I foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this 

* Proves me worthy your friendship. And so — let 

it prove 
' That I cannot — I do not — respond to your love. 
' Yes, indeed be convinced that I could not (no, 

no, 

* Never, never !) have render'd yoii happy. And 

so, 



116 LUCILE. [Part L 

* Rest assured that, if false to the vows you have 

plighted, 
*You would have encmred, when the first brief) 
excited 

* Emotion was o'er, not alone the remorse 

* Of honour, but also (to render it worse) 

* Disappointed affection. 

* Yes, Alfred ; you start ? 
But think 1 if the world was too much in your 
heart, 

* And too little in mine, when we parted ten years 
Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and 

tears !) 
*Have but deepened the old demarcations which 

then 
' Placed our natures asunder ; and we two again, 

* As we then were, would still have been strangely 

at strife. 

* In that self-independence which is to my life 

* Its necessity now, as it once was its pride, 

* Had our course through the world been henceforth 

side by side, 

* I should have revolted forever, and shock'd, 

* Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mock'd, 

* Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all those 

* Social creeds which you live by. 

' Oh I do not suppose 
♦That I blame you. Perhaps it is you that are 
right. 

* Best, then, all as it is I 

* Deem these words life's Good-night 

* To the hope of a moment : no more 1 If there 

fell 

* Any tear on this page, 'twas a friend's. 

' So farewell 

* To the past — and to you, Alired Vargrave. 

*LUCILF.^ 



Canto V.} LUCILB. 117 



So ended tliat letter. 

The room seem'd to reel 
Round and round in the mist that was scorching hia 

eyes 
With a fiery dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, 
Seem'd to choke him ; each word he had read, as it 

smote 
Down some hope, seem'd to grasp, like a hand, at 

his throat. 
And stifle and strangle him. 

Gasping already 
For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady, 
He pass'd from his chamber. He felt both op- 

press'd 
And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast, 
And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, pass'd 
The long lime-trees of Serchon. His footsteps at 

last 
Eeach'd a bare narrow heath by the skirts of a 

wood : 
It was sombre and silent, and suited his mood. 
By a mineral spring, long unused, now unknown, 
Stood a small ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, sat 

down 
On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and 

thistle, 
And read over again that perplexing epistle. 



In re-reading that letter, there roU'd from his mind 
The raw mist of resentment which first made him 

blind 
To the pathos breath'd thro' it. Tears rose in his 

eyes. 
And a hope sweet and strange in tis heart seem'd 

to rise. 
The truth which he saw not the first time he read 



118 LUCILE. [Pakt L 

That letter, he now saw — that each word betray 'd 
The love which the writer had sought to conceal. 
His love was received not, he could not but feel, 
For one reason alone, — that his love was not freei 
True ! free yet he was not : but could he not be 
Free erelong, free as air to revoke that farewell, 
And to sanction his own hopes? he had but to 

tell 
The truth to Matilda, and she were the first 
To release hini : he had but to wait at the worst. 
Matilda's relations would probably snatch 
Any pretext, with pleasure, to break off a match 
In which they had yielded, alone at the whim 
Of their spoil'd child, a languid approval to him. 
She herself, careless child 1 was her love for him 

aught 
Save the first joyous fancy succeeding the thought 
She last gave to her doll ? was she able to feel 
Such a love as the love he divined in Lucile ? 
He would seek her, obtain his release, and, ohl 

then, 
He had but to fly to Lucile, and again 
Claim the love which his heart would be free to 

command. 
But to press on Lucile any claim to her hand, 
Or even to seek, or to see her, before 
He could say, ' I am free 1 free, Lucile, to implore 
' That great blessing on life you alone can confer,* 
'Twere dishonour in him, 't would be insult to 

her. 
Thus, still with the letter outspread on his Knee 
He follow'd so fondly his own reverie. 
That he felt not the angry regard of a man 
Fix'd upon him ; he saw not a face stern and wan 
Turn'd towards him ; he heard not a footstep that 

pass'd 
And repass'd the lone spot where he stood, till at 

last 
A hoarse voice aroused him. 



CANro V.J LUCILE. 119 

He look'd up, and saw, 
On the bare heath before him, the Due de Luvois. 



With aggressive ironical tones, and a look 
Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke 
Address'd to Lord Alfred some sneering allusion 
To * the doubtless sublime reveries his intrusion 
♦Had, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would da 

better, 
' He fancied, however, to fold up a letter 

* The writing of which was too well known, in 

fact, 

* His remark as he pass'd to have fail'd to attract.' 

xm. 

It was obvious to Alfred the Frenchman was bent 
Upon picking a quarrel ; and doubtless 't was 

meant 
Irom him to provoke it by sneers such as these. 
A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize 
The position. He felt that he could not expose 
His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to those 
Idle tongues that would bring down upon him the 

ban 
Of the world, if he now were to fight with thia 

man. 
A.nd indeed, when he look'd in the Duke's haggard 

face, 
He was pain'd by the change there he could not 

but trace- 
And he almost felt pity. 

He therefore put by 
Each remark from the Duke with some careless 

reply, 
And coldly, but courteously, waving away 
The iU-humour the Duke seem'd resolved to dis* 

Rose, and turn'd, with a stern salutation, aside. 



120 LUCILE. [Part I 



XIV. 

Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one 

stride 
In advance, raised a hand, fix'd upon him his 

eyes, 
And said . . . 

* Hold. Lord Alfred I Away with disguise I 
I will own that I sought you a moment ago, 
To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do so 
Upon any excuse. I prefer to be frank. 
I admit not a rival in fortune or rank 
To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers 
Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. 
I beUeved, ere you cross'd me, and stiU have the 

right 
To believe, that she would have been mine. To 

her sight 
You return, and the woman is suddenly changed. 
You step in between us : her heart is estranged. 
You I who now are betroth'd to another, I 

know : 
You ! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten years 

ago 
Was coupled by ties which you broke : you 1 the 

man 
1 reproach'd on the day our acquaintance be- 
gan : 
You I that left her so lightly, — I cannot believe 
That you love, as I love, her ; nor can I con- 
ceive 
You, indeed, have the right so to love her. 

* IMilord, 
I will not thus tamely concede, at your word, 
What, a few days ago, I believed to be mine 1 
I shall yet persevere : I shall yet be, in fine, 
A rival you dare not despise. It is plain 
That to settle this contest there can but remain 
One way — need I say what it is ? ' 



Canto V.] lucile. 121 



Not unmoved 
With regretful respect for the earnestness proved 
By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave 

replied 
In words which he trusted might yet turn aside 
The quarrel from which he felt bound to abstain, 
And, with stately urbanity, strove to explain 
To the Duke that he too (a fair rival at worst 1) 
Had not been accepted. 



* Accepted 1 say first 

* Are you free to have offer'd ? * 

Lord Alfred was mute. 

XVII. 

' Ah, you dare not reply ! * cried the Duke. * Why 
dispute, 

* Why palter with me ? you are silent ! and why ? 

* Because, in your conscience, you cannot deny 
' 'T was from vanity, wanton and cruel withal, 

* And the wish an ascendency lost to recall, 

* That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, 

milord, 

* You be really sincere, I ask only one word. 

* Say at once you renounce her. At once, on my 

part, 

* I will ask your forgiveness with all truth of heart, 
'And there can be no quarrel between us. iSay 

on!' 
Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone 
Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. 
' You have not the right, sir,' he said, ' and still 

less 

* The power, to make terms and conditions with 

me. 
I refuse to reply.* 



122 LUCILE. LPabT I 

xvin. 

As diviners may see 
Fates they cannot avert in some figure occult, 
He foresaw in a moment each evil result 
Of the quarrel now imminent. 

There, face to face, 
'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race, 
With, for witness, the stem Autumn Sky over- 
head, 
And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and tho 

dead. 
Those two men had met, as it were on the ridge 
Of that perilous, narrow, invisible bridge, 
Dividing the Past from the Future, so small 
That, if one should pass over, the other must fall. 



On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof, 
Urged with speed, sharply smote ; and from under 

the roof 
Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged 
On the heath where they stood, at full gallop 

emerged 
A horseman. 

A guide he appear'd, by the sash 
Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern 

lash 
With the short wooden handle, slung crosswise 

behind 
The short jacket ; the loose canvas trouser, con- 
fined 
By the long boots ; the woollen capote ; and the rein, 
A mere hempen cord on a curb. 

Up the plain 
He wheel'd his horse, whfte with the foam on his 

flank, 
Leap'd the rivulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the 

bank, 



CiiNio v.] LUCILE. 123 

And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen 

capote, 
Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note. 



The two men stood astonish'd. The Duke, with a 
gest 

Of apology, turn'd, stretch'd his hand, and pos- 
sess'd 

Himself of the letter, chang'd colour, and tore 

The page open, and read. 

Ere a moment was o'er 

His whole aspect changed. A light rose to hij 
eyes, 

And a smile to his lips. While with startled sur- 
prise 

Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his 
heel, 

And said gayly, ' A pressing request from Luclle ! 

* You are quite right. Lord Alfred I fair rivals at 

worst, 
' Our relative place may perchance be reversed. 

* You are not accepted — not free to propose ! 

' I, perchance, am accepted already ; who knows ? 
' I had warn'd you, milord, I should still persevere, 
'This letter — but stay I you can read it — look 
here ! ' 



(t was now Alfred's turn to feel roused and en- 
raged. 
But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged 
By aught that could sanction resentment. He said 
Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter, and 
read . . . 



124 LUCILE. [Part L 



THB COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO THE DUG DB 
LUVOIS. 

' Saint Saviour. 

''Your letter, whicli follow'd me here, makes me 
stay 

* Till I see you again. With no moment's delay 
'I entreat, I conjure you, by all that you feel 

* Or profess, to come to me directly. 

' LuciLE.* 



* Your letter ! ' He then had been writing to her I 
Coldly shrugging his shoulders. Lord Alfred said, 

'Sir, 
' Do not let me detain you ! * 

The Duke smiled and bow'd ; 
Placed the note in his bosom ; address'd, half 

aloud, 
A few words to the messenger. . . * Say your 

despatch 

* Will be answer'd ere nightfall ' ; then glanced at 

his watch. 
And turn'd back to the Baths. 



Alfred Vargrave stood still, 
Tom, distracted in heart, and divided In will. 
He turn'd to Lucile's farewell letter to him, 
And read over her words ; rising tears made then 

dim ; 
* Doubt is over : mi/ future isjix'd now* they said, 
My course is decided.' Her course ? what ! to wed 
With this insolent rival I AVith that thought there 

shot 
Through his heart an acute jealous anguish. But 

not 



Cajsto v.] I.UCILE. 125 

Even thus could his clear worldly sense quite 
excuse 

Those strange words to the Duke. She was free 
to refuse 

Himself, free the Duke to accept, it was true : 

Even then though, this eager and strange rendez- 
vous 

How imprudent I To some unfrequented lone 
inn, 

A.nd so late (for the night was about to begin) — 

She, companionless there ! — had she bidden that 
man ? 

A. fear, vague, and formless, and horrible, ran 

Through his heart. 



At that moment he look'd up, and saw, 
Biding fast through the forest, the Due de Luvois, 
Who waved his hand to him, and sped out of sight. 
The day was descending. He felt 't would be 

night 
Ere that man reach'd Saint Saviour. 



He walk'd on, but not 
Back toward Serchon : he walk'd on, but knew not 

in what 
Direction, nor yet with what object, indeed, 
He was walking ; but still he walk'd on without 

heed. 



The day had been sullen; but, towards his de- 
cline, 

The sun sent a stream of wild light up the pine. 

Darkly denting the red light reveal'd at its back, 

The old ruin'd abbey rose roofless and black. 

The spring that yet oozed through the moss-paven 
floor 



126 LUCELE. [Part L 

Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of 

yore. 
The site of that refuge where, back to its God 
How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod, 
Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest 
That now prey'd on his own ! 



By the thoughts in his breast 
With varying impulse divided and torn, 
He traversed the scant heath, and reach'd the 

forlorn 
Autumn woodland, in which but a short while ago 
He had seen the Duke rapidly enter ; and so 
He too enter'd. The light waned around him, and 

pass'd 
Into darkness. The wrathful, red Occident cast 
One glare of vindictive inquiry behind, 
As the last light of day from the high wood de- 
clined. 
And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the beam, 
And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream 
Fell faintly. 



O Nature, how fair is thy face. 
And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy 

grace 1 
Thou false mistress of man 1 thou d«st sport with 

him lightly 
In bis hours of ease and enjoyment ; and brightly 
Dost thou smile to his smile ; to his joys thou in- 

clinest. 
But his sorrows, thou knowest them not nor 

divinest. 
While he woos, thou art wanton ; thou lettest \im 

love thee*; 
But thou art not his friend, for his grief cai "i 

move thee. 



Ca^'TO v.] LUCILE. 127 

And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost 

thou ? 
All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow, 
And thou laughest and toyest with any new-comer, 
Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for summer 1 
Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart 

under 
That fair breast of thine, O thou feminine wonder 1 
For all those — the young, and the fair, and the 

strong. 
Who have loved thee, and lived with thee gayly and 

long. 
And who now on thy bosom lie dead ? and their 

deeds 
And their days are forgotten! O hast thou no 

weeds 
And not one year of mourning, — one out of the 

many 
That deck thy new bridals forever, — nor any 
Regrets for thy lost loves, conceal'd from the new, 
O thou widow of earth's generations ? Go to ! 
If the sea and the night-wind know aught of these 

things, 
They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings. 



128 LUCILB. [FABX I 



CANTO VI 



* The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase, 

* And eltrich, and eerie, and strange is the place I 

* The castle betokens a date long gone by. 

* He crosses the courtyard with curious eye : 

* He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet 

* From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are 

set; 

* And the whole place grows wilder, and wilder, 

and less 

* Like aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress, 

* Strange portraits regard him with looks of sur- 

prise ; 

* Strange forms from the arras start forth to his eyes \ 
' Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall ; 

* The spell of a wizard is over it all. 

* In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleep- 

ing. 

* The sleep which for centuries she has been keep- 

ing. 
'If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some lover 
^ Whose lost golden locks the long grasses now 

cover : 
» If she moan in her dream, it must be to deplore 
' Some grief which the world cares to hear of no 

more. 

* But how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her 

cheek 1 

* And how sweet must that voice be, if once she 

would speak I 
*He looks and he loves her; but knows he (not 
he!) 

* The clew to unravel this old mystery ? 



Canto VI.] luoile. 129 

* And he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on 

the wall, 

* The mute men in armour around him, and all 

* The weird figures frown, as tho' striving to saj, 

* " Halt ! invade not the Past, reckless child of To- 
day ! 

* " And give not, O madman ! the heart in thy breast 

* '•^ To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possessed 

* " By an Age not thine own I " 

* But unconscious is he, 

* And he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see 

* Aught but one form before him 1 

' Rash, wild words are o'er ; 
' And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore ! 
' And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves 
' O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves 
' Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream. 
' Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from tho 

scheme 
' Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart.' 
And this is an old fairy-tale of the heart. 
It is told in all lands, in a different tongue ; 
Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by 

the young. 
And the tale to each heart unto which it is known 
Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own. 



Eugene de Luvois was a man who, in part 

From strong physical health, and that vigour of 

heart 
Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance, 
From a generous vanity native to France, 
Threw himself, heart and soul, into all that allured 
Or en^^aged his sensations ; nor ever endured 
To relinquish to failure whate'er he began, 
Or accept any rank, save the foremost. 

A man 
Of action by nature, he might have, no doubf,, 
9 



180 LUCILE. [FauT i 

Been in some sense a great man, had life but laid 

out 
Any great field of action for him, or conceded 
To action a really great aim, such as needed 
Faith, patience, self-sacrifice. 

But, on the whole. 
From circumstance partly beyond his control, 
His life was of trifles made up, and he lived 
In a world of frivolities. Still he contrived 
The trifles, to which he was wedded, to dower 
With so much of his own individual power 
(And mere pastime to him was so keen a pursuit), 
That these trifles seem'd such as you scarce could 

impute 
To a trifler. 

Both he and Lord Alfred had been 
Men of pleasure : but men's pleasant vices, which, 

seen 
In Alfred, appear'd, from the light, languid mood 
Of soft unconcern with which these were pursued, 
As amiable foibles, by strange involution. 
In Eugene, from their earnest, intense prosecution. 
Appear'd almost criminal. 

Nevertheless, 
What in him gave to vice, from its pathos and 

stress, 
A sort of malignity, might have perchance 
Had the object been changed by transposed ciis 

cumstance. 
Given vigour to virtue. And therefore, indeed. 
Had his life been allied to some fix'd moral creed, 
In the practice and forms of a rigid, severe, 
And ascetic religion, he might have come near 
To each saint in that calendar which he now 

spurn'd. 
In its orbit, however, his intellect turn'd 
On a circle so narrow'd as quite to exclude 
A spacious humanity. Therefore, both crude 
And harsh his rehgion would ever have been. 



CaniO VI.] LUCILE. 131 

As shallow, presumptuous, narrow, and keen, 
Was the trite irreligion which now he display'd. 
It depended alone upon chance to have made 
Persecutor of this man, or martyr. For, closed 
In the man, lurk'd two natures the world deems op 

posed, 
A Savonarola's, a Calvin's, alike 
Unperceived by himself. It was in him to strike 
At whatever the object he sought to attain. 
Bold as Brutus, relentless as Philip of Spain, 
And undaunted to march, in behalf of his brothe"«» 
To the stake, or to light it, remorseless, for others. 
The want of his life was the great want, in fact, 
Of a principle, less than of power to act 
Upon principle. Life without one living truth I 
To the sacred political creed of his youth 
The century which he was born to denied 
All realization. Its generous pride 
To degenerate protest on all things was sunk ; 
Its principles, each to a prejudice shrunk. 
And thus from his youth he had lived, in constrain'd 
Vain resistance, opposed to the race that then 

reign'd 
In the land of his birth, and from this cause alone 
Exiled from his due sphere of action, and thrown 
Into reckless inertness, whence, early possess'd 
Of inherited wealth, he had learn'd to invest 
Both his wealth and those passions wealth frees 

from the cage 
Which penury locks, in each vice of an age 
All the virtues of which, by the creed he revered, 
Were to him illegitimate. 

Thus, he appea^^-'d 
Neither Brutus nor Philip in action and deed, 
Neither Calvin nor Savonarola in creed, 
But that which the world chose to have him ap- 
pear, — 
The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere 
Reformer in coats, cards, and carriasres ! Still 



132 LUCILE. [Part 1 

'T was tHs vigour of nature, and tension of will, 
Whence his love for Lucile to such passion had 

grown. 
The moment in which with his nature her own 
Into contact had come, the intense life in her, 
The tenacious embrace of her strong character, 
Had seized and possess'd what in liim was akin 
To the powers within her ; and still, as within 
Her loftier, larger, more luminous nature. 
These powers assumed greater glory and stature, 
Her influence over the mind of Eugene 
Was not only strong, but so strong as to strain 
All his own to a loftier hmit. 

And so 
His whole being seem'd to cling to her, as though 
Pie divined that, in some unaccountable way. 
His happier destinies secretly lay 
In the light of her dark eyes. And stiU, in hia 

mind. 
To the anguish of losing the woman was join*d 
The terror of missing his life's destination. 
Of which, as in mystical representation. 
The love of the Avoman, whose aspect benign 
Guided, starlike, his soul, seem'd the sjTnbol and 

sign. ^ 
For he felt, if the light of that star it should miss. 
That there lurk'd in his nature, conceal'd, an abyss 
Into which all the current of being might roll^ 
Devastating a life, and submerging a soul. 



And truly, the thought of it, scaring him, pass'd 
O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight 

rode fast. 
As a shade from the wing of su-me great bird ob- 
scene 
In a wide silent land may bo suddenly seen. 
Darkening over the sands, where it startles and 
scares 



CanVO VI.] LUCILE. 188 

Some traveller stray 'd in the waste una\.'are3, 

So that thought more than once darken'd over hia 
heart 

For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. 

Fast and furious he rode through the thickets which 
rose 

Up the shaggy hill-side ; and the quarrelhng crows 

Clang'd above hun, and clustering down the dim 
air 

Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and 
there 

Shepherd fires faintly gleam'd from the valleys. 
O, how 

He envied the wings of each wild bird, as now 

He urged the steed over the dizzy ascent 

Of the mountain 1 Behind him a murmur was 
sent 

From the torrent — before hun a sound from the 
tracts 

Of the woodlands that waved o'er the wild cata- 
racts, 

And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd mo- 
mently down 

From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. 

The red day had fallen beneath the black woods, 

And the Powers of the night through the vast soli- 
tudes 

Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. 
The trees 

Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like 
seas 

In ELfland. The road through the forest was hol- 
low'd. 

On he sped through the darkness, as though he 
were follow'd 

Fast, fast by the Erl King ! 

The wild wizard-work 

Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork 

Of a savage ravine, and behind the bla'^k stems 



134 LUCILE. [Past 1 

Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd 

like gems, 
Broke the broad moon above the voluminous 
Rock-chaos, — the Hecate of that Tartarus I 
With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd 

the door 
Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar 
Craggy promontory, o'er a fissure as grim, 
Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the 

limb 
Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight 
Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. 
A balcony hung o'er the water. Above 
In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move. 
At the door the old negress was nodding her head 
As he reach'd it. 'My mistress awaits you,' she 

said. 
And up the rude stairway of creaking pine rafter 
He folio w'd her silent. A few moments after. 
His heart almost chok'd him, his head seem'd to 

reel, 
For a door closed — and he was alone with Lucile. 



In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair uncon- 

fined 
Streaming o'er it, and toss'd now and then by the 

wind 
From the lattice, that waved the dull flame Ji a 

spire 
From a brass lamp before her — a faint hectic 

fire 
On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever : 
They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than 

ever. 
Those dark eyes — so dark and so deep ! 

Some supreme 
And concentrated effort within her to seem 
Unassail'd by emotions which, nevertheless, 



Canto VL] lucile. 135 

Were betray'd on her cheek, touch'd to strange 

stateliness 
All her form. He sprang forward and cried, 

' You relent ? 

* And your plans have been changed by the letter 

I sent ? ' 
Tliere his voice sank, bprne down by a strong in- 
ward strife. 

The rouNTESS. 

Tour letter 1 yes, Dr' ^. For it threatens man's 

life — 
Woman's honour. 

The Duke. 

The last, madam, not I 

The Countess. 

Both. I glance 
At your own words ; blush, son of the knighthood 

of France, 
As I read them I You say in this letter . . . 

' I know 
^Why noio you refuse me ; 't is (is it not so f) 
^I or the man who has trifled before^ wantonly^ 
' y\ndnow trifles again with the heart you deny 
Fo myself. But he shall not ! By man's last wild 

law, 
I will seize on the right ' (the right, Due de Lu- 
vois !) 

* To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give 

» To the future its freedom. That man shall not 
live 

* To make you as wretched as you have made me ! * 

The Dukb. 

Well, madam, in those words what word do yoi 

see 
That threatens the honour of woman ? 



136 LUCILE. [Pakt L 

The Countess. 

See U . . what, 
What word, do you ask ? Every word ! would 

you not, 
Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your 

name 
Was soil'd and dishonour'd by more than mere 

shame 
If the woman that bore it had first been the cause 
Of the crune which in these words is menaced ? 

You pause ! 
Woman's honour, you ask ? Is there, sir, no dis- 
honour 
In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her, 
Can shudder, and say, ' In that smile is a grave ' V 
No I you can have no cause, Duke, for no rigbt 

you have 
In *ihe contest you menace. That contest but 

draws 
Every right into ruin. By all human laws 
Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities 
Of man's social honour ! 

The Duke droop'd his eyes. 

* 1 obey you,* he said, ' but let woman beware 
*How she plays fast and loose thus with human 

despair 
*And the storm in man's heart. Madam, ycui-s 
was the right, 

* When you saw that I hoped, to extinguish hope 

quite, 

* But you should fi-om the first have done this, ibr 

I feel 

* That you knew from the first that I loved you.* 

Lucile 
This sudden reproach seem'd to startle. 

She raised 
A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed 



Canto VI j LUCILB. 137 

On them silent awhile. His own looks were down* 

cast. 
Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm 

was now pass'd, 
Pity crept, and perchance o'er her conscience a 

tear. 
Falling softly, awoke it. 

However severe, 
Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to 

her? 
Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character. 
Which had seem'd, even when most impassi.on'd it 

seem'd, 
Too self-conscious to lose all in love? Had she 

deem'd 
That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world. 
So proud of the place the world gave him, held 

furl'd 
In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide 
Might tug, till it snapp'd, that erect lofty pride ? 
Were those elements in him, which, once roused to 

strife, 
Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole 

life? 
Xhere are two kinds of strength. One, the 

strength of the river. 
Which through continents pushes its pathway for- 
ever 
To fling its fond heart in the sea ; if it lose 
This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use, 
It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies. 
The other, the strength of the sea ; which supplies 
Its deep life from mysterious sources, and draws 
The river's life into its own life^ by laws 
Wliich it heeds not. The difference in each case 

is this: 
The river is lost, if the ocean it miss ; 
If the sea miss the river, what matter ? The sea 
Is the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will be 



138 LUCILE. [Part L 

Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore ; 

Its sources are infinite ; still to the shore, 

"With no diminution of pride, it will say, 

* I am here ; I, the sea ! stand aside, and make 

way I' 
Was his love, then, the love of the river ? and she, 
Had she taken that love for the love of the sea ? 



At that thought, from her aspect whatever had 

been 
Stem or haughty departed; and, humbled in 

mien. 
She approach'd bun, and brokenly murmur'd, aa 

tho' 
To herself, more than him, *Way I wrong? is it 

so? 

* Hear me, Duke ! you must feel that, whatever 

you deem 

* Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem 

* I may claim on one ground — I at least am sincere. 

* You say that to me from the first it was clear 

* That you loved me. But what if this knowledge 

were known 

* At a moment in life when I felt most alone, 

* And least able to be so ? a moment, in fact, 
*When I strove from one haunting regret to re- 
tract 

* And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil 

* Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes ? would you 

still 

* So bitterly blame me, Eugene de Luvois, 

* If I hoped to see all this, or deemed that I saw 
For a moment the promise of this in the plighted 

* Afiection of one who, in nature, united 

* So much that from others affection might claim, 

* If only affection were free ? Do you blame 

* The hope of that moment ? I deem'd my heart 

free 



Cakio VL] lucile. 139 

* From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me 

* There was yet strength to mould it once more tc 

my will, 

* To uplift it once more to my hope. Do you still 

* Blame me, Duke, that I did not then bid j^ou 

refrain 

* From hope ? alas I I too then hoped I ' 

The Duke. 

O again, 
Tet again, say that thrice blessed word ! say, 

Lucile, 
That you then deign'd to hope — 

The Countess. 

Yes 1 to hope I could feel, 
And could give to you, that without which, all else 

given 
Were but to deceive, and to injure you even : — 
A heart free from thoughts of another. Say, 

then, 
Do you blame that one hope ? 

The Duke. 

O Lucile 1 

' Say again,' 

She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, 

* Do you blame me that, when I at last had to own 
*To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd v^aa 

o'er, 
*And forever, I said to you then, "Hope no 
more " ? 

* I myself hoped no more ! ' 

With but ill-suppress'd wrath 
The Duke answer'd . . . ' What, then 1 he recrossea 

your path, 
This man, and you have but to see him, despite 

* Of his troth to another, to take back that light 



140 LUCILE. [Pari 1 

*Wortliless heart to your own, which he wrong'd 
years ago I ' 

Lucile faintly, brokenly murmur'd ... * No 1 uo 1 

* 'T is not that — but — alas ! — but I cannot con- 

ceal 

* That I have not forgotten the past — but I feel 

* That I cannot accept all these gifts on your 

part, — 

* Rank — wealth — love — esteem — in return for 

a heart 

* Which is only a ruin 1 ' 

With words warm and wild, 

* Tho' a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild 

* And restore it,' the Duke cried ; ' tho' ruin'd it 

be, 

* Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me 1 ' 
He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief 

in her eyes 
Answer'd ' No ! ' 

An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise 
And to break into flame, as tho' fired by the light 
Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, ' Am I 

right ? 

* You reject me I accept Mm V 

' I have not done so,' 
She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed, 'Not yet 
— no! 

* But can you with accents as firm promise me 

* That you will not accept him ? ' 

"•^ ' Accept ? Is he free ? 

* Free to offer ? ^ she said. 

' You evade me, Lucile,' 
He replied ; ' ah, you will not avow what you feel ! 
' He might make himself free ? O you blush — 
turn away ! 

* Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say I 
While you deign to reply to one question from 

me? 



Canto VI.] lucile. 141 

* I may hope rn.->t, you tell me : but tell me, may 

he '/ 
' What ! silent ? I alter my question. If quite 
'Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope 

then ? ' 

* He might/ 
She said softly. 



Those two whisper'd words, in his breast, 
As he heard them, in one deadly moment releast 
All that 's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush 
And extinguish in man all that 's good. In the rush 
Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste 
And darken and devastate intellect, chased 
From its realm human reason. The wild animal 
In the bosom of man was set free. And of all 
Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce 
As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to 

pierce 
And to rend, rush'd upon him : fierce jealousy, 

sweird 
By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd 
To involve all things else in the anguish within it. 
And on others inflict its own pangs I 

At that minute 
What pass'd thro' his mind, who shall say ? who 

may tell 
The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red 

glare ,of hell 
Can illumine alone^? 

He stared wildly around 
That lone place, so lonely 1 That silence I no 

sound 
Reach'd that room, thro' the dark evening air, save 

the drear 
Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near I 
It was midnight all round on the weird silent 

weather ; 



142 LUCILE. [Paut I. 

Deep midnight in him ! They two, — lone and 

together, 
Himself, and that woman defenceless before him ! 
The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. 
The abyss of his own black despair seem'd to ope 
At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope 
Which Dante read over the city of doom. 
All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom, 
And, uttering words he dared never recall. 
Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down 

all 
The brew'd storm-cloud within him : its flashei 

scorch'd blind 
His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind 
Of a reckless emotion beyond his control ; 
A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His soul 
Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd 
And seeth'd in his heart. 

vn. 

He had thrown, and had miss'd 
His last stake. 

VIII. 

For, transfigured, she rose from the place 
Where he rested o'er-awed : a saint's scorn on her 

face : 
Such a dread vade retro was written in light 
On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that 

sight. 
Have sunk back abash'd to perdition. I know 
If Lueretia at Tarquin but once had look'd so, 
Slie had needed no dagger next morning. 

She rose 
And swept to the door, like that phantom the 

snows 
Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when dayliglit ii 

gone 
And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. 



CAHtO VI.] LUCILE. 143 

There she paused ; and, as though from unmeasur- 

able, 
Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd — 

' Farewell 1 
* We, alas ! have mistaken each other. One more 
' Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. 
' Due de Luvois, adieu ! ' 

From the heart-breaking glocra 
Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room 
He felt she was gone — gone forever ! 



No word, 
The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, 
Could have pierced to his heart with such keen 

accusation 
As the silence, the sudden profound isolation, 
In which he remain'd. 

' O return ; I repent ! ' 
He exclaim'd ; but no sound through the stillness 

was sent. 
Save the roar of the water, in answer to him, 
And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night- 
hymn : 
An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air 
With a searching, and wistful, and questioning 

prayer. 
* Return,' sung the wandering insect. The roar 
Of the waters replied, ' Nevermore I nevermore I * 
He walk'd to the window. The spray on his brow 
Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water 

below ; 
The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound 
Of the torrent. The mountains gloom'd sullenly 

round. 
A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. 
O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung, 
Vaguely watching the broken and shimmerinp( 

blink 



M4 LUCILE. [Paet L 

01' the stars on the veering and vitreous brink 
Of that snake-like prone column of water ; and 

listing 
Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting 
Sharp horn of the gray gnat. Before he relin- 

quish'd 
His unconscious employment, that light was ex- 

tinguish'd. 
Wheels, at last, from the inn door aroused hun. 

He ran 
Down the stairs ; reach'd the entrance. An old 

stableman 
Was lighting his pipe in the doorway alone. 
Down the mountain, that moment, a carriage waa 

gone. 
He could hear it, already too distant to see. 
He turn'd to the groom there — 

' Madame est partie. 



He sprang from the door-step ; he rush'd on ; but 

whither 
He knew not — on, into the dark cloudy weather — 
The midnight — the mountains — on, over the 

shelf^ . . ' 

Of the precipice — on, still — away from himself 1 
Till, exhausted, he sank 'mid the dead leaves and 

moss 
At the mouth of the forest. A glimmering cross 
Of gray stone stood for prayer by the woodside. 

He sank 
Prayerless, powerless, down at its base, 'mid the 

dank 
Weeds and grasses; his face hid amongst them 

He knew 
That the night had di\nded his whole life in two. 
Behind him a Past that was over forever ; 
Before him a Future devoid of endeavour 
And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one. 



CAN-DJ XL] LUCILE. 145 

Of the other a fear. \Vhat remain'd to be done? 
Whither now should he turn ? turn again, as be- 
fore, 
To his old, easy, careless existence of yore 
He- could not. He felt that for better or worse 
A change had pass'd o'er him ; an angry remorse 
Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd 
Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'd 
By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must 

tread 
To attain it. He realized then all the dread 
Conditions which go to a life without faith. 
The sole unseen fact he believed in was death. 
His soul, roused to life by a great human need. 
Now hunger'd and thirsted. What had he to feed 
Her hunger and thirst on ? That wise mother, 

France, 
Had left to her spoil'd child of outgrown romance 
Not a toy yet unbroken. 

From college to college 
She had gorged him crop full on her dead Tree of 

Knowledge ; 
But the lost Tree of Life — still the cherubim's 

sword 
Fenced it from her false Edens. Belief was a 

word 
To him, not a fact. He yet clung by a name 
To a dynasty fallen forever. He came 
Of an old princely house, true through change to 

the race 
And the sword of Saint Louis — a faith 't were dis- 
grace 
To relinquish, and folly to live for 1 Nor less 
•Was his ancient rehgion (once potent to bless 
Or to ban ; and the crozier his ancestors kneel'd 
To adore, when they fought for the Cross, in hard 

field 
With the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, 
tradition ; 

10 



146 LUCILE. [Part L 

A mere faded badge of a social position ; 
A thing to retain and say nothing about, 
Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from 

doubt, 
Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of 

his youth 
Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his manhood, in 

truth 1 
And beyond them, what region of refuge? what 

field 
For employment, this civilized age, did it yield. 
In that civilized land ? or to thought ? or to 

action ? 
Blind deliriums, bewilder'd and endless distrac- 
tion 1 
Not even a desert, not even the cell 
Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell 
The wild devil-instincts which now, unreprest, 
Ran riot thro' that ruin'd world in his breast. 



So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sight 
Of a heaven scaled and lost ; in the wide arms of 

night 
O'er the howling abysses of nothingness ! There 
As he lay, Nature's deep voice was teaching hinj 

prayer ; 
But what had he to pray to ? 

The winds in the woods, 
The voices abroad o'er those vast solitudes, 
Were in commune all round with the invisible 

Power 
That walk'd the dim world by Himself at that 

hour. 
But their language he had not yet learn'd — in 

despite 
Of the much he liad learn'd — or forgotten it quite, 
With its once native accents. Alas 1 what had he 
To add to that deep-toned sublime symphony 



Canto VI.] lucile. H7 

Of thanksgiving ? , . . A fiery finger was still 
Scorching into his heart some dread sentence. 

His will, 
Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wild 
At its work of destruction within him. The 

child 
Of an infidel age, he had been his own god, 
His own devil. 

He sat on the damp mountain sod, 
And stared sullenly up at the dark sky. 

The clouda 
Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in 

crowds 
Of misshapen, incongruous portents. A green 
Streak of dreary, cold, luminous ether, between 
The base of their black barricades, and the ridge 
Of the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under some 

bridge, 
Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'erthrown 
By sieges forgotten, some river, unknown 
And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands. 
While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands 
Dismantled and rent ; and reveal'd, through a 

loop 
In the breach'd dark, the blemish'd and half-broken 

hoop 
Of the moon, which soon silently sank ; and anon 
The whole supernatural pageant was gone. 
The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss, 
Darkened round him. One object alone — that 

gray cross — 
Glimmer'd faint on the dark. Gazing up, he de- 
scried 
Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd 

wide, 
As though to embrace him. 

He turn'd from tac s^fhtr 
Set his fa'^e to the darkness, and fled. 



U8 LUCLLE. [Part I 

xa. 

When the light 
Of the dawn grayly flicker'd and glared on the 

spent 
Wearied ends of the night, like a hope that is sent 
To the need of some grief when its need is the 

sorest, 
He was sullenly riding across the dark forest 
Toward Serchon. 

Thus riding, with eyes of defiance 
Set against the young day, as disclaiming alliance 
With aught that the day brings to man, he per- 
ceived. 
Faintly, suddenly, fleetingly, through the damp- 
leaved 
Autumn branches that put forth gaunt arms on hia 

way. 
The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray 
With the gray glare of morning. Eugene de Lu- 

vols. 
With the sense of a strange second sight, when hs 

saw 
That phantom-like face, could at once recognize, 
By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the eyes 
Of his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim, 
With a stern, sad inquiry fixed keenly on him. 
And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his own ; 
A lie born of that lying darkness now grown 
Over all in his nature I He answer'd that gaze 
With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys 
More intensely than words what a man means, 

convey'd 
Beyond doubt in its smile an announcement which 

said, 
'/ have triumphed. The question your eyes wouia 

imply 
' Comes too late, Alfred Vargrave ! * 

And so he rode by, 



CAin3 VI.] LUCILE. 149 

And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of sight, 
Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite. 



And it bit, and it rankled. 



Lord Alfred, scarce knowing, 
Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going, 
By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pur- 
sued, 
And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude 
From his mind every human sensation, save one — 
The torture of doubt — had stray'd moodily on, 
Down the highway deserted, that evening in which 
With the Duke he had parted ; stray'd on, thro' 

the rich 
Haze of sunset, on into the gradual night, 
Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight, 
Toward Saint Saviour ; nor did the changed as- 
pect of all 
The wild scenery round him avail to recall 
To his senses their normal perceptions, until, 
As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill 
At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had 

hung 
Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from 

among 
The rent vapours, and sunk o'er the ridge of the 

world. 
Then he lifted his eyes, and saw round him un- 

furl'd, 
Ie one moment of splendour, the leagues of dark 

trees. 
And the long, rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. 
And he knew by the milestone scored rough on 

the face 
Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the 
'place 



150 LUCILE. [Part I. 

Where Lucile and Luvois must liave met. lliia 

same track 
The Duke must have travers'd, perforce, to get back 
To Serchon ; not yet then the Duke had returned 1 
He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern'd 
Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. 
He knew that the night was approaching to day. 
He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The morn 
Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and 

forlorn, 
Reveal'd to him, riding toward Serchon, the Duke. 
*T was then that the two men exchanged look for 

look. 



And the Duke*s rankled in him. 

XVI. 

He rush'd on. He toru 
His path through the thicket. He reach'd the iuL.- 

door. 
Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, 
And inquired for the Countess. The man rubb'd 

his eyes. 
The Countess was gone. And the Duke ? 

The man stared 
A sleepy inquiry. 

With accents that scared 
The man's dull sense awake, ' He, the stranger,' ho 
cried, 

* Who had been there that night ! ' 

The man grinn'd, and replied, 
With a vacant intelligence, ' He, oh ay, ay ! 

* He went after the lady.' 

No further reply 
Could he give. Alfred Vargrave demanded no 

more, 
Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the 

door. 



CajJTO VI.] LUCILE. 151 

* What 1 the Duke then the night In that lone inn 

had pass'd? 

* In that lone inn — with her 1 * "Was that look he 

had cast 
When they met in the forest, that look which re- 

main'd 
On his mind with its terrible smile, thus explain'd ? 



The day was half turn'd to the evening, before 
He re-enter'd Serchon, with a heart sick and sore. 
In the midst of a light crowd of babblers, his look, 
By their voices attracted, distinguish'd the Duke, 
Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright, 
W^ith laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. 

Eight 
Through the throng Alfred Vargrave, with swift 

sombre stride, 
Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd 

aside. 
And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low, 
' Oh, how right have you been 1 There can never 

be — no, 
• Never — any more contest between us I Milord, 
' Let us henceforth be friends ! ' 

Having utter'd that word, 
He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again 
His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by thai 

train 
Of his young Imitators. 

Lord Alfred stood still, 
Rooted, stunn'd, to the spot. He felt weary and ill. 
Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the 

soul 
With a dull stifling anguish he could not control. 
Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the 

crowd. 
The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud 
Some comment upon his gay humour that day ? 



152 LUCILE. [Paki I 

He never was gayer : what makes him so gay V 
'Tis, no doubt, say the flatterers, flattering in tune, 
Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugia 
Has at last found a Mars — who, of course, shall 

be nameless. 
The vestal that yields to Mars only is blameless ! 
Hark 1 hears he a name which, thus syllabled, stira 
All his heart into tumult ? . . . Lucile de Nevers 
With the Duke's coupled gayly, in some laughing, 

ligW, 
Free allusion ? Not so as might give him the right 
To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet 
To a trite and irreverent compliment set 1 



Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul 
Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did 

there roll 
Back again, back again, on its smooth downward 

course 
O'er his nature, with gather'd momentum and force, 
The world. 



' No ! ' he mutter'd, ' she cannot have sinn'd 1 

* True ! women there are (self-named women of 

mind !) 

* Who love rather liberty — liberty, yes 1 

* To choose and to leave — than the legaHzed stress 

* Of the most brilliant marriage. But she — is she so ? 

* I will not believe it. Lucile ? Oh no, no I 

* Not Lucile ! 

' But the world ? and, ah, what would it say ? 

* O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day 1 

* The gossip's light question 1 the slanderous jest ! 

* She is right I no, we could not be happy. 'T is best 

* As it is. I will write to her — write, O my heart ! 

* And accept her farewell. Our farewell must we 

part — 



CA»1v> VLl LLCILE. 153 

* Part thus, then — forever, Lucile ? Is it so ? 

* Yes I I feel it. We could not be happy, I know, 

* 'T was a dream I we must waken 1 ' 



With head bow'd, as though 
By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow 
Moody footsteps, he turn'd to his inn. 

Drawn apart 
From the gate, in the courtyard, and ready to start, 
Postboys mounted, portmanteaus pack'd up and 

made fast, 
A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd. 
He order'd his horse to be ready anon ; 
Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd 

on, 
And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room. 
It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the gloom 
Of the evening. He listlessly kindled a light, 
On the mantel-piece ; there a large card caught hiir 

sight — 
A large card, a stout card, well printed and plain, 
Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain. 
It gave a respectable look to the slab 
That it lay on. The name was — 



^iR Ridley MacNab. 



Full familiar to him was the name that he saw, 
For 't was that of his own future uncle-in-law, 
Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known 
As wearing the longest-phylacteried gown 
Of all the ri h Pharisees England can boast of; 



154 LUCILE. [pARt L 

A shrewd Puritan Scot, whoso sharp wits made thd 

most of 
This world and the next ; having largely invested 
Not only where treasure is never molested 
By thieves, moth, or rust ; but on this earthly 

ball, 
Where interest was high, and security small. 
Of mankind there was never a theory yet 
Not by some individual instance upset : 
From old Homer's, who sang that the race may be 

found 
Now flourishing high, and now low on the ground. 
Like the leaves upon trees ; for one sometimes per- 
ceives 
Certain creatures that spring from the mud put 

forth leaves 
In high places ; and so to that verse in the Psalm 
Which declares that the wicked expand like the 

palm 
In a world where the righteous are stunted and 

pent, 
A cheering exception did Ridley present. 
Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety. 
The leader of every religious society. 
Christian knowledge he labour'd thro' life to pro- 
mote 
With personal profit, and knew how to quote 
Both the stocks and the Scripture, with equal ad- 
vantage 
To himself and admiring friends, in this Cant- 



Whilst over this card Alfred vacantly brooded, 
A waiter his head thro' the doorway protruded ; 
* Sir Kidley MacNab with Milord wish'd to speak.* 
Alfred Yargrave could feel there were tears on hU 

cheek ; 
He brush'd them away with a gesture of pride. 



Canto VL] lucile. 155 

He glanced at the glass; wheu his own face he 

eyed, 
He was scared by its pallor. Inclininf^ his head, 
He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said 

* Sir Ridley may enter.' 

In three minutes more 
That benign apparition appear'd at the door. 
Sir Ridley, releas'd for a while from the cares 
Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs 
Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release. 
In company there with his sister and niece. 
Found himself now at Serchon — distributing tracts, 
Sowing seed by the way, and collecting new facts 
For Exeter Hall ; he was starting that night 
For Bigorre : he had heard, to his cordial delight. 
That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting 

out 
For the same destination : impatient, no doubt I 
Here some commonplace compliments as to ' the 

marriage ' 
Through his speech trickled softly, like honey ; his 

carriage 
Was ready. A storm seem'd to threaten the 

weather : 
If his young friend agreed, why not travel to- 
gether ? 

With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown 
Of perplexity, during this speech, up and down 
Alfred Vargrave was striding ; but, after a pause 
And a sHght hesitation, the which seem'd to cause 
Som5 surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd — 'My 

dear 
' Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here — 

* Half an hour at the most — to conclude an affair 

* Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare 

* My presence (which brought me, indeed, t/D this 

spot), 
< Before 1 accept your kind offer/ 



156 LUCILE. [Part L 

* Why not?' 
Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. Alfied Vargrave, 

before 
Sir Ridley observed it, had pass'd throu<Th the 

door. 
A few moments later, with footsteps revealing 
Intense agitation of uncontroll'd feeling. 
He was rapidly pacing the garden below. 
What pass'd through his mind then is more than I 

know. 
But before one half-hour into darkness had fled. 
In the courtyard he stood with Sir Ridley. Ilia 

tread 
Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face 
Betray'd there the least agitation. ' The place 

* You so kindly have ofTer'd,' he said, ' I accept.* 
And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers 

stepp'd 
Smiling into the carriage. 

And thus, out of sight, 
They drove down the dark road, and into the 

night. 
Who can answer where any road leads to ? 

XXII. 

Alas! 
There are so many questions of this kind thaii 

pass 
My perplex'd comprehension, that were I to place 

them 
On record, no volume would ever encase them. 
There is heaven above us I we see it each day : 
But what is the reason, can any one say. 
Why what we see most of, we least comprehend V 
Again, if our eyes on earth only we bend, 
What suggests that strange doubt — ' This appeal- 
ing Creation, 

* Which says . . . Eat, di'ink, be full ! ... is it oiU 

temptation ? ' 



Canto M.] lucile. 157 

Tbo' divine Aplirodite should open her arms 

To our longing, and lull us to sleep on her charms ; 

Tho' the world its full sum of enjoyment insure us 

Tho' Horace, Lucretius, and old Epicurus 

Sit beside us, and swear we are happy, what 

then? 
Wlience the answer within us which cries to these 

men, 
' Let it be ! you say well ; but the world is too old 

* To rekindle within it the ages of gold ; 

* A vast hope hath travcrs'd the earth, and our 

eyes 
' In despite of ourselves we must lift to the skies ' ? 
And we lift them ; and, lifting them, why do we 

find 
That just when we vindicate sight, we are blind ? 
The Sir Ridleys, and other good men of that class, 
Bring spectacles, which not a raylet will pass ; 
And seek to make clear to our vision the sun. 
By dimming his splendour, and smoking him dun. 
Then we turn to the children of this generation, 
Since the children of light deal in light's obscura- 
tion. 
And O Chaos and Night 1 what at last do we mark 
By the gleam of their corpse-lights enkindling tho 

dark ? 
A Leibnitz transfigures clean from us our being : 
From whirlpool to whirlpool Descartes sets it flee- 

V/ith that horrible face. Monsieur Arouet Voltaire 

Grins Theology out of its wits at one stare. 

Not the first time a dwarf's sword a giant dc- 

spatch'd ; 
If it could not cut deep, it disfigured and scratch'd. 
Next, man in the image of Jean Jacques we have, 
A coward, a liar, a thief, and a slave ! 
Spinosa finds out for us God everywhere, 
Saving just where we, else, could have found Him, 

in prayer ; 



158 LUCILE. [Part 1 

Locke (and few will dispute the assertion I ween) 
Is a great mechanician if man 's a machine : 
Kant, the great god of Nothing, takes pains to ex 

pound, 
But his pains go for nothing — since nothing ia 

found. 
And of all human science the last word is this ; 
Simply Nothing — the name scribbled o'er an 

abyss. 
Is, then. Life one vast question without a reply ? 
Must man, like Ulysses, with stopp'd ears sail by 
Where'er Thought and Sense (Sirens only) sing 

to him 
Songs over the deeps, that are sure to undo him 
If once he should list to the music that mocks 
The frail bark it lures to the whirlpools and rocks ? 
And to exercise thought, or to satisfy sense, 
To the Being that gave both, is this an offence ? 
Not mine be that creed, whosesoever it be ! 
My heart humbly whispers this answer to me : 
— True ! the more we gaze up into heaven, the 

more 
Do we feel our gaze foil'd ; all attempt to explore 
With earth's finite insight heaven's infinite glad- 
ness 
Is baffled by something like infinite sadness. 
What then, did man's limited science engirth 
Heaven's limitless secret, were man's use on earth, 
"Where he just sees enough of the heaven above 

him 
To be sure it is there, to confirm and approve 

bim 
In his work upon earth, whence he works his way 

to it ? 
True I the more that we seek earthly bliss, and 

pursue it. 
The more do we feel it inadequate, wholly 
Insufficient for man ; a profound melancholy 
At the bottom of all, like the whirlpool, absorbs, 



CAufVO Yl.] LUCILE. 159 

In its own sombre bosom, the brittle bright orbs 
Of those painted bubbles eall'd pleasures. What 

then, 
If earth in itself were sufficient for men, 
Would be man's claim to that glorious promise 

which arches 
With Hope's fourfold bow the black path where ht 

marches 
Triumphant to death, chanting boldly, ' Beyond I * 
Whilst invisible witnesses round him respond 
From the Infinite, till the great Paean is caught 
By the echoes of heaven, and the chariot of 

Thought 
Rolls forth from the world's ringing walls to its goal, 
Urged by Faith, the bright-eyed charioteer of the 

soul? 



Sii Ridley was one of those wise men who, so far 
Ao their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar, 

* We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom bhall 

die with us ! ' 

Though of wisdom like theirs there is no small sup- 
ply with us. 

Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two 
men 

Began to converse, somewhat drowsily, when 

Alfred suddenly thought — ' Here 's a man of ripe 
age, 

* At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage, 

* Who looks happy, and therefore who must havo 

been wise : 

* Suppose I with caution reveal to his eyes 

* Some few of the reasons which make me believe 

* That I neither am happy nor wise ? 't would re- 

lieve 
' And enhghten, perchance, my own darkness and 

doubt.' 
For which piirpose a feeler he softly put out. 



160 LUCTLE. [Part L 

It was snapp'd up at once. 

' What is truth ? ' jesting Pilate 
Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a 

smile at 
Its utter futility. Had he address'd it 
To Ridley McNab, he at least had confess'd it 
Admitted discussion ! and certainly no man 
Could more promptly have answer'd the sceptical 

Roman 
Than Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk I 
Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk, 
And forthwith on the pavement he'll sketch you 

the scheme 
Of the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on hia 

theme ! 
Not afraid of Laplace, nor of Arago, he ! 
He '11 prove you the whole plan in plain A b c. 
Here 's your sun — call him a ; b 's the moon ; it ia 

clear 
How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear 
Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask Laplace, 
(Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to 

face !) 
Their science in plain A b c to accord 
To your point-blank inquuy, my friends ! not a 

word 
Will you get for your pains from their sad lips. 

Alas! 
Not a drop from the bottle that 's quite full will 

pass. 
'T is the half-empty vessel that freest emits 
The water that 's in it. 'T is thus with men's wits ; 
Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capa- 
bility 
Of imparting to others a truth with facility 
Is proportion'd forever with painful exactness 
To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness, 
The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight 
Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulate 



Oanto VL] LUCILE. 161 

More freely than large ones. A beggar asks 

alms, 
And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms ; 
But if every street charity shook an investment. 
Or each beggar to clothe we must strip off a vest- 
ment. 
The length of the process would limit the act ; 
And therefore the truth that 's summ'd up in a 

tract 
la most lightly dispensed. 

As for Alfred, indeed, 
On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed 
By Sir Eidley, I know not. This only I know. 
That the two men thus talking continued to go 
Onward somehow, togethei.* — on into the night — 
The midnight — in which they escape from our 
sififht. 



And meanwhile a world had been changed in its 

place. 
And those ghttering chains that o'er blue, balmy 

space 
Hang the blessing of darkness, had drawn out of 

sight. 
To solace unseen hemispheres, the soft night ; 
And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended. 
And the fair morn to all things new sanction ex- 
tended, 
In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on, 
Lost in light, shook the dawn with a song from iha 

sun. 
And the world Iaugh*d. 

It wanted but two rosy hours 
From the noon, when they pass'd through the tail 

passion-flcwers 
Of the little wild garden that dimpled before 
The small house where their carriage now stopp'd 

at Bigorre. 

11 



162 LUCILE. [PakT I, 

And more fair than the flowers, more fresh than 

the dew, 
With her white morning robe flitting joyously 

through 
The dark shrubs with which the soft hill-side was 

clothed, 
Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his 

betrothed. 
Matilda sprang to him, at once, with a face 
Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such 

grace, 
And radiant confidence, childlike delight, 
That his whole heart upbraided itself at that 

sight. 
And he murmur'd, or sigh'd, * O, how could I 

have stray'd 
'From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to 

invade 
' Her young claim on my life, though it were for 

an hour, 

* The thought of another ? ' 

' Look up, my sweet flower ! ' 
He whisper'd her softly, ' my heart unto thee 
' Is return'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee ! ' 
' And will wander no more ? ' laugli'd Matilda. 

' No more,' 
He repeated. And, low to himself, * Yes, 't is o'er 1 
' My course, too, is decided, Lucile ! Was 1 blind 
' To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen 
of mind 

* Could satisfy simply a plain English heart, 

* Or sympathize with it ? ' 

XXV. 

And here the first part 
Of this drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd 
On the actors within it — the Heart and the 

World. 
Woo'd and wooer have plaj'd with the riddle of 

life,— 



Canto VI.^ LUCILE. IGS 

Have they solved it ? 

Appear I answer, Husband and Wife 



Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers, 
Hear her own heart's fareweU in this letter of 
hers. 

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN 
INDIA. 

* Once more, O mj friend, to your arms and your 

heart, 
' And the places of old . . . never, never to part ! 

* Once more to the palm and the fountain ! Once 

more 

* To the land of my birth and the deep skies of 

yore ! 

* From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret 

* Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set i 
*From the children that cry for the birth, and 

behold, 

* There is no strength to bear them — old Time hi 

so old I 

* From the world's weary masters, that come upon 

earth 
*Sapp'd and min'd by the fever they bear from 
their birth; 

* From the men of small stature, mere parts of a 

crowd, 
*Born too late, when the strength of the world 
hath been bow'd ; 

* Back, — back to the orient, from whose sunbr;ght 

womb 

* Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the 

bloom 

* And the beauty of times that are faded forever I 

* To the palms 1 to the tombs 1 to the still Sacred 

River 1 



164 LtciLE, [Part 1 

Where I too, the cliild of a day that is done, 
First leapt into life, and look'd up at the sun. 
^Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home 
' I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come ! 

* Are the three intense stars that we watch'd night 

by night 

* Burning broad on the band of Orion as bright ? 
'• Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old, 

* When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams 

for gold ? 

* Do you yet recollect me, my friend ? Do you 

still 

* Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, 

* ']Mid those huge stones upheap'd, where we reck- 

lessly trod 

* O'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruin'd god ? 

* How he frown'd, while around him we carelessly 

play'd ! 

* Tliat frown on my life ever after hath stay'd, 

' Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast 

* From some vague supernatural grief in the past. 

* For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, he 

frown'd, 

* To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, 

had found, 

* In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss 

' Which his science divine seem'd divinely to miss. 

* Alas ! you may haply remember me yet 

*The free child, whose glad childhood myself I 

forget. 
*I come — a sad woman, defrauded of rest : 
I bear to you only a labouring breast ; 

* My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hur\'d 

' O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wreclcs of a 
world : 

* The dove from my bosom hath flown far away : 

* It is flown, and returns not, though many a day 

* Have I watch'd from the windows of life for its 



CAjrro VI.] LUCILE. 165 

* Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming. 

* I know not what Ararat rises for me 

* Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea : 

* I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hill?, 

* Lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills : 

* But a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my 

breast 

* Wakes and whispers me on — to the East I to the 

Eastl 

* Shall I find the child's heart that I left there ? or 

find 

* The lost youth I recall with its pure peace of 

mind ? 

* Alas ! who shall number the drops of the rain ? 

* Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again ? 
^ Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake 

hath rent ? 
' Who shall bring forth the winds that within them 
are pent ? 

* To a voice who shall render an image ? or who 

' From the heats of the noontide shall gather the 
dew? 

* I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life. 

' Wherefore hngers the flame ? Rest is sweet after 

strife. 
' I would sleep for a while. I am weary. 

' My friend, 

* I had meant in these lines to regather, and send 

' To our old home, my life's scatter'd links. But 

't is vain I 
' My own touch seems to shatter the chaplct again ; 

* Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er, 

* Wlio return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yoro 

* Whence too far have I wander'd. 

' How many long years 

* Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching 

tears, 

* While I wrote to you, splash'd out a girl's pre* 

mature 



;66 LUCILE. [Part I 

* Moans of pain at what women in silence endure I 

* To your eyes, friend of mine, and to your eyes 

alone, 

* That now long-faded page of my life hath been 

shown 

* Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as 

you know 

* Many years since, — how many ! 

' A few months ago 

* I seem'd reading it backward, that page 1 Why 

explain 

* Whence or how ? The old dream of my life rose 

again 
"' The old superstition ! the idol of old I 
' It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould 
Is not to the forest more lost than to me 
<• That emotion. I bury it here by the sea 

* Which wiU bear me anon far away from the shore 

* Of a land which my footsteps will visit no more, 
' And a heart's requiescat I write on that grave. 

* Hark ! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the 

wave, 

* Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home ! 

* I come, O you whispering voices, I come ! 

* My friend, ask me nothing. 

* Receive me alone 

* As a Santon receives to his dwelling of stone 

' In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring : 
' It may be an angel that, weary of wing, 

* Hath paused in his flight from some city of doom, 
' Or only a wayfarer stray'd in the gloom. 

' This only I know : that in Europe at least 

' Lives the craft or the power that must master our 

East. 
' Wherefore strive where the gods must themselvei 

yield at last ? 
' Both they and their altars pass by with the Past. 
' The gods of the household Time thrusts from the 

shell^; 



Canto YI.) lucile. 167 

* And I seem as unreal and weird to myself 
' As those idols of old. 

* Other times, other men, 

* Other men, other passions 1 

* So be it ! yet again 

* 1 turn to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn, 

* And the light of those lands where the great sun 

is born 1 

* Spread your arms, O my friend ! on your breast 

let me feel 

* The repose which hath fled from my own. 

* Your Lucile.' 



PART II 



CANTO I. 



Barp of mine, to my breast let me clasp thee once 

more 
As closely, old friend, as I clasp'd thee of yore. 
When the world smiled on me thro* thy three 

chords of gold, 
Hope, Wonder, and Love breathing music ! 

Behold I 
Now, celestially naked, — new Queen of the 

world, — 
Where the rose, her red signal, is gayly unfurl'd, 
Summer stands in the meadows and dresses her 

bowers, 
Shyly tended upon by the virgin-eyed flowers ; 
And her rich voice hath reach'd me, far-floating 

along — 
♦ All my lovers sing round me, but where is thy 

song ? ' 
In secret the nightingale sings from the dark 
Of his thicket, in sunlight is singing the lark, 
And that spu'it wliich men call the cuckoo senda 

out 
Of the blue heart of heaven a jubilant shout. 
And the brown thrush is loud in the milk-whito 

May-bush, 
And the bee makes a melody heard through the 

lush 



no LUCILE. [Part n. 

Yeltow-neck'd honeysuckles, and out of its dream 
The air hums and whispers. 

I turn to the theme 
Long neglected. 

Years, too, have pass'd over the head 
Of my hero since last of his fortunes you read, 
Gentle Reader. By way, then, of due preparaf 

tion, 
i feel that my song needs a new invocation. 
Hard to find 1 For each Muse by this time has, I 

know, 
Been used up, and Apollo has bent his own bow 
All too long ; so I leave un assaulted the portal 
Of Olympus, and only invoke here a mortal. 

Hail, Murray ! — not Lindley, — but Murray and 

Son. 
Hail, omniscient, beneficent, great Two-in-One 1 
In Albemarle Street may thy temple long stand ! 
Long enlighten'd and led by thine erudite hand. 
May each novice in science nomadic 'mravel 
The celarent, darii, ferio of travel ! 
May each inn-keeping knave long thy judgments 

revere. 
And the postboys of Europe regard thee with 

fear; 
While they feel, in the sUence of baffled extortion, 
That knowledge is power I Long, long, like that 

portion 
Of the national soil which the Greek exile took 
In his baggage wherever he went, may thy book 
Cheer each poor British pilgrim, who trusts to thy 

wit 
Not to pay through his nose just for following it ! 
May'st thou long, O instructor! preside o'er his 

way. 
And teach him alike what to praise and to pay ! 
Thee, pursuing this pathway of song, once again 
I invoke, lest, unskHl'd, I should wander in vain. 



Canto I.J LUCILE. 171 

;ro my call be propitious, nor, churlish, refuse 
Thy great accents to lend to the lips of my Muse ; 
For I sing of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the steins 
Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. 
Tes! thy spirit descends upon mine, O John 

Murray 1 
*\ad I ■'tart — with thy book — for the Baths in a 

v.^j(Ty. 



5 At Coblentz & bridge of boats crosses the Rhine ; 
' And from then^:? the road, winding by Ehren- 
breitstein, 

* Passes over the frontiet cf 2?assau. 

('N. B. 

* No Custom-house here since the '^oil'?erein.* Sea 
Murray, paragraph 30.) 

* The rouie, at each *u>»-\ 
Here the lover of nature allows to discer^^. 
In varying prospect, a rich wooded dale : 
The vme and acacia-tree mostly prevail 

* In the foliage observable here ; and, moreover, 

* The soil is carbonic. The road, under cover 

' Of the grape-clad and mountainous upland that 
hems 

* Round this beautiful spot, brings the traveller to — ■ 

'EMS. 

* A Schnellpost from Frankfort arrives every day. 

' At the Kurhaus (the old Ducal mansion) you 

pay 

' Eight florins for lodgings. A Restaurateur 

' Is attach'd to the place ; but most travellers prefer 

* (Including, indeed, many persons of note) 
' To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. 

' Through the town runs the Lahn, the steep green 
banks of which 

* Two rows of white picturesque houses enrich ; 

* And between the lugh-road and the river is laid 

^ Out a sort of a garden, call'd " The Promenade ** 



1^2 LUCILE. [Pakt II. 

'Female visitors here, who may make up their 
mind 

* To ascend to the top of these mountains, will find 

* On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day 

long, 

* Troops of donkeys — sure-footed — proverbially 

strong ' ; 
And the traveller at Ems may remark, as he 



Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses. 



'"Mid the world's weary denizens bound for these 

springs 
In the month when the merle on the maple-bough 

sings, 
Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths 
By a similar sickness, there came to the baths 
Four sufferers — each stricken deep through the 

heart 
Or the head by the selfsame invisible dart 
Of the arrow that flieth unheard in the noon, 
From the sickness that walketh unseen in the 

moon, 
Through this great lazaretto of life, wherein each 
Infects with his own sores the next within reach. 
First of these were a young English husband and 

wife, 
Grown weary ere half thro' the journey of life. 
O Nature, say where, thou gray mother of earth, 
Is the strength of thy youth ? that thy womb brings 

to birth 
Only old men to-day 1 On the winds, as of old. 
Thy voice in its accent is joyous and bold ; 
Thy forests are green as of yore ; and thine oceans 
Yet move in the might of their ancient emotions : 
But man — thy last birth and thy best — is no more 
Life's free lord, that look'd up to the starlight of 

yore, 



Canto L] LUCILE. 17* 

With the faith od the brow, and the fire in the 

eyes, 
The firm foot on the earth, the high heart in the 

skies ; 
But a gray-headed infant, defrauded of youth, 
Born too late or too early. 

The lady, in truth. 
Was young, fair, and gentle ; and never was given 
To more heavenly eyes the pure azure of heaven. 
Never yet did the sun touch to ripples of gold 
Tresses brighter than those which her soft hand 

unroU'd 
From her noble and innocent brow, when she rose. 
An Aurora at dawn from her balmy repose, 
And into the mirror the bloom and the blush 
Of her beauty broke, glowing ; like light in a gush 
From the sunrise in summer. 

Love, roaming, shall meet 
But rarely a nature more sound or more sweet — 
Eyes brighter — brows whiter — a figure more 

fair — 
Or lovelier lengths of more radiant hair — 
Than thine, Lady Alfred ! And here I aver 
(May those that have seen thee declare if I err 1) 
That not all the oysters in Britain contain 
A pearl pure as thou art. 

Let some one explain, — 
^¥ho may know more than I of the intimate life 
Of the pearl with the oyster, — why yet in his 

wife. 
In despite of her beauty — and most when he 

felt 
lib soul to the sense of her loveliness melt — 
Lord Alfred miss'd something he sought for: in- 
deed. 
The more that he miss'd it, the greater the need; 
Till it seem'd to himself he could willingly spare 
All the charms that he found for the one charm 

not there. 



174 LUCILE. [Paut II. 



For the blessings Life lends us, it strictly demands 
The worth of their full usufruct at our hands 
And the value of all things exists, not indeed 
In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding man's 

need. 
Alfred Vargrave, in wedding with Beauty and 

Youth, 
Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Yet 

in truth 
UnfulfiU'd the ambition, and sterile the wealth 
(In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health), 
Had remain'd, while the beauty and youth, unre- 

deem'd 
From a vague disappointment at all things, but 

seem'd 
Day by day to reproach him in silence for all 
That lost youth in himself they had fail'd to recall. 
No career had he follow'd, no object obtain'd 
In the world by those worldly advantages gain'd 
From nuptials beyond which once seem'd to 

appear, 
Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. 
All that glitter'd and gleam'd through the moon- 
light of youth 
With a glory so fair, now that manhood in truth 
Grasp'd and gather'd it, seem'd like that false fairy 

gold 
Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves, and 

mould 1 



Fairy gold ! moss and leaves ! and the young Fairy 

Bride ? 
Lived there yet fairylands in the face at his 

side? 
Say, O friend, if at evening thou ever hast watch'd 
Some pale and impalpable vapour, detach'd 



Canto I.] lucile. 17A 

From the dim and disconsolate eartli, rise and fail 
O'er the light of a sweet, serene star, until all 
The chill'd splendour reluctantly waned in the 

deep 
Of its own native heaven ? So, slowly did cree^ 
O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day, 
While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away, 
Hid its light in the heart, the faint gradual veil 
Of a sadness unconscious. 

The lady grew pale 
As silent her lord grew : and both, as they ey'd 
Each the other askance, turn'd, and secretly 

sigh'd. 
Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can 



gi 



VP9 



True, we know what life is — but, alas I do we 

live? 
The grammar of life we have gotten by heart 
But life's self we have made a dead language — an 

art. 
Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 't wai 

spoken 
When the silence of passion the first time waa 

broken 1 
Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no 

doubt : 
But the last man, at best, was but learned about 
What the first, without learning, enjoifd. AVhat 

art thou 
To the man of to-day, O Leviathan, now ? 
A science. What wert thou to him that from 

ocean 
First beheld thee appear ? A surprise, — an 

emotion I 
When life leaps in the veins, when it beats in tho. 

heart, 
When it thrills as it fills every animate part, 
Where lurks it? how works it? . . we scarcelj^ 

detect it. 



176 LUCILE. [Part k 

But life goes : the heart dies : haste, O leech, anO 

dissect it 1 
This accursed aesthetical, ethical age 
Hath so finger'd life's horn-book, so blurr'd ever^r 

page, 
That the old glad romance, the gay chivalroui 

story 
With its fables of faery, its legends of glory, 
Is turn'd to a tedious instruction, not new 
To the children that read it insipidly through. 
We know too much of Love ere we love. We can 

trace 
Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his face 
When we see it at last. 'T is the same little Cupid, 
With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile 

almost stupid, 
We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on our 

shelves. 
And copied a hundred times over, ourselves. 
And wherever we tm-n, and whatever we do, 
Still, that horrible sense of the deja connu ! 



Perchance 't was the fault of the life that they led ; 
Perchance 't was the fault of the novels they read ; 
Perchance 't was a fault in themselves ; I am bound 

not 
To say : this I know — that these two creatures 

found not 
In each other some sign they expected to find 
Of a something unnamed in the heart or the mind ; 
And, missing it, each felt a right to complain 
Of a sadness which each found no word to explain. 
Whatever it was, the world noticed not it 
In the Kght-hearted beauty, the light-hearted wit. 
Still, as once with the actors in Greece, 'tis the 

case. 
Each must speak to the crowd with a mask on hij 

face. 



Canto I.] LUCILE. 177 

Praise foUow'd Matilda wherever she went. 
She was flatter'd. Can flattery purchase con- 
tent ? 
Yes. While yet to its voice, for a moment, she 

listen'd, 
The young cheek still bloom'd, and the soft eye 

still glisten'd ; 
And her lord, when, like one of those light vivid 

things 
That glide down the gauzes of summer with wings 
Of rapturous radiance, unconscious she moved 
Thro' that buzz of inferior creatures which proved 
Her beauty, their envy, one moment forgot 
'Mid the many charms there, the one charm that 

was not : 
And when o'er her beauty enraptured he bow'd, 
(As they turn'd to each other, each flush'd from the 

crowd,) 
And murmur'd those praises which yet seem'd more 

dear 
Than the praises of others had grown to her ear, 
She, too, ceased for a while her own fate to re- 
gret: 
* Yes ! . . he loves me,' she sigh'd ; ' this is love, 
then — and yet — / ' 



Ah, that yet ! fatal word ! 't is the moral of all 
Thought and felt, seen or done, in this world since 

the Fall! 
It stands at the end of each sentence we learn ; 
It flits in the vista of all we discern ; 
It leads us, for ever and ever, away 
To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. 
'T was this same little fatal and mystical word 
That now, like a mirage, led my lady and lord 
To the waters of Ems from the waters of Marah ; 
Drooping pilgrkus in Fashion's blank, arid Sahara 1 
12 



178 LUCtLE. [PajKT II 



At the same time, pursued by a spell much the 

same, 
To these waters two other worn pilgrims there 

came : 
One a man, one a woman : just now, at the latter, 
As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her 
And judge for himself, I will not even glance. 



Of tha self-crown d young kings of the Fashion in 

France, 
Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight, 
Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots were so 

bright, 
Who so hail'd in the salon, so mark'd in the Bois, 
Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois ? 
Of all the smooth-brow'd premature debauchees 
In that town of all towns, where Debauchery sees 
On the forehead of youth her mark everywhere 

graven, — 
In Paris, I mean,- — where the streets are all paven 
By those two fiends whom Milton saw bridging the 

way 
From Hell to this planet, — who, haughty and gay, 
The free rebel of life, bound or led by no law, 
Walk'd that causeway as bold as Eugene da 

Luvois ? 
Yes! he march'd through the great masquerade, 

loud of tongue. 
Bold of brow : but the motley he mask'd in, it 

hung 
So loose, trail'd so wide, and appear'd to impede 
So strangely at times the vex'd effort at speed. 
That a keen eye might guess it was made — not 

for him, 
But some brawler more stalwart of stature and 

limb. 



Canto L^ LUCILE. 179 

That it irk'd him, in truth, you at times could 

divine, 
For when low was the music, and spilt was the 

wine, 
He would clutch at the garm6nt, as though it op« 

press'd 
And stilled some impulse that choked in his breast. 



What ! he, . . . the light sport of his frivolous ease I 

Was he, too, a prey to a mortal disease ? 

My friend, hear a parable : ponder it well : 

For a moral there is in the tale that I tell. 

One evening I sat in the Palais Royal, 

And there, while I laugh'd at Grassot and Arnal, 

My eye fell on the face of a man at my side ; 

Every time that he laugh'd 1 observed that he 

sigh'd. 
As though vex'd to be pleased. I remark'd that 

he sat 
111 at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat 
In his hand, with a look of unquiet abstraction. 
I inquired the cause of his dissatisfaction. 
' Sir,' he said, 'if what vexes me here you would 

know, 

* Learn that, passing this way some few half-houra 

ago, 
' I walk'd into the Fraiv^ais, to look at Rachel. 

* (Sir, that woman in Phedre is a miracle !) — WeL, 
' I ask'd for a box : they were occupied all : 

* For a seat in the balcon : all taken ! a stall : 

* Taken too : the whole house was as full as could 

be, — 

* Not a hole for a rat ! I had just time to see 
' The lady I love tete-a-tete with a friend 

' In a box out of reach at the opposite end : 

* Then the crowd push'd me out. What was left 

me to do ? 

* I tried for the tragedy . . . que voulez vous t 



180 LUCILE. [Part n. 

* Every place for the tragedy book'd ! . . . mon ami^ 
' The farce was close by : ... at the farce me void ! 

* The piece is a new one : and Grassot plays well ; 

* There is drollery, too, in that fellow Ravel : 

* Arnal's nose is surprising indeed ! . . . yet I meant 
•My evening elsewhere, and not thus, to have 

spent. 

* Fate orders these things by her will, not by ours 1 

* Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers.* 

I once met the Due de Luvois for a moment ; 

And I mark'd, when his features I fix'd in my com- 
ment, 

O'er those features the same vague disquietude 
stray 

I had seen on the face of my friend at the play ; 

And I thought that he too, very probably, spent 

His evenings not wholly as fii'st he had meant. 



O source of the holiest joys we inherit, 
O Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit ! 
Ill fares it with man when, through life's desert 

sand. 
Grown impatient too soon for the long-promised 

land. 
He turns from the worship of thee, as thou art. 
An expressless and imageless truth in the heart, 
And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf 
And the gold of the Godless, to make to himself 
A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee. 
And then bows to the sound of the cymbal the 

knee. 
The sorrows we make to ourselves are false gods : 
Like the prophets of Baal, our bosoms with rods 
We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till they 

bleed, 
But these idols are blind, deaf, and dumb to ouj 

need. 



CAWrO I.] LUCILE. 181 

The land is athirst, and cries out ! ... 't is in vain ; 
The great blessing of heaven descends not in rain. 



It was night; and the lamps were beginning to 

gleam 
Through the long linden-trees, folded each in Lis 

dream, 
From that building which looks like a temple . . . 

and is 
The Temple of — Health ? Nay, but enter 1 1 wis 
That never the rosy-hued deity knew 
One votary out of that sallow-cheek'd crew 
Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Russians, 
Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prussians ; 
Jews — Hamburghers chiefly ; — pure patriots, — 

Suabians ; — 
* Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabians, 
' And the dwellers in Pontus * . . . My muse will 

not weary 
More lines with the list of them . . . cur fremuere f 
What is it they murmur, and mutter, and hum ? 
Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come ? 
Oh what is the name of the God at whose fane 
Every nation is mix'd in so motley a train ? 
What weird Cabala lies on those tables outspread ? 
To what oracle turns with attention each head ? 
What holds these pale worshippers each so devout, 
And what are those hierophants busied about ? 



Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro. 
And rolls without ceasing, the great Yes and No : 
Kound this altar alternate the weird Passions dan<;e, 
And the God worshipp'd here is the old God of 

Chance. 
Throigh the wide-open doors of the distant saloon 
Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune ; 
And an indistinct music forever is roll'd. 



182 LUCILE. [Pakt n. 

That mixes and chimes with the chink of th« 
gold, 

From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze, 

Of figures forever eluding the gaze ; 

For there the Ball bounds like a wanton gazelle 

Pursued by a bee through a warm golden dell ; 

It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the 
glass, 

And the weird worr'j pursue it — Pair, Impair^ ei 
Passe I 

Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreama 
as encumber 

With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber 

Of some witch when she seeks, through a night- 
mare, to grab at 

The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sabbat 



The Due de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met 
Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet 
Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion of 

Chance. 
The idler from England, the idler from France 
Shook hands, each, of course, with much cordial 

pleasure : 
An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treas- 
ure. 
And they both were too well-bred in aught to be- 
tray 
One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd 

away. 
*T was a sight that wis pleasant, indeed, to be seen, 
These two friend? exchange greetings ; — the men 

who had been 
Foes so nearly in days that were past. 

This, no doubt, 
Is why, on the night I am speaking about, 
My Lord Alfred sat down by himself at roulette, 
Without one suspicion his bosom to fret. 



UAiSTO L] LUCII.E. 183 

Although he had left, with his pleasant Frencli 

friend, 
Matilda, half I'ex'd, at the room's farthest end. 



'T is a fact, by all history placed beyond doubt, 
That there needs nothing more a whole army to 

rout 
Than one coward that takes to his heels ; for, with 

speed, 
His fellows are certain to follow the lead. 
Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began 
With a few modest thalers — away they all ran — 
The reserve followed fast in the rear. As bis 

purse 
Grew lighter, his spirits grew sensibly worse. 
One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it : 
'T is an old law in physics — Natura abhorret 
Vacuum — and my lord, as he watch'd his last 

crown 
Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a frown 
Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have 

deck'd 
On that day of all days when an empire was 

wreck'd 
On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witness'd the last 
Of his favourite Guard cut to pieces, aghast ! 
Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why. 
Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye 
Had long been intently regarding him there, — 
That some gaze was upon him too searching to 

bear. 
lie rose and look'd up. Was it fact? Was it 

fable? 
Was it dream ? Was it waking ? Across the 

green table, 
That face, with its features so fatally known — 
Those eyes, whose deep gaze answer'd strangely 

his own — 



184 LUCILE. [Part IL 

What was it? Some ghost from its grave come 

again ? 
Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain ? 
Or was it herself — with those deep eyes of hers, 
And that face unforgotten ? — Lucile de Nevers 1 



Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem. 
Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream 
'Neath those features so calm, that fair forehead sa 

hushVl, 
That pale cheek forever by passion unflush'd, 
There yawn'd an insatiate void, and there heaved 
A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. 
The brief noon of beauty was passing away, 
And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, 
O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. 
And now, as all round her the dim evening stole, 
With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved 
For the want of that tender assurance received 
From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an 

eye, 

I she 

naught, — / am by 1 ' 
And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd exist- 
ence 
Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and 

distance : 
A strange sort of faint-footed fear, — like a mous's 
That comes out, when 't is dark, in some old ducal 

house, 
Long deserted, where no one the creature can 

scare. 
And the forms on the arras are all that move there 

In Rome, — in the Forum, — there open'd one night 
A gulf All the- augurs turn'd pale at the sight. 
In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. 
Men consulted the gods: then the oracle said: — 



CAirro I.] LUCiLE. 185 

* Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last 

* That which Kome hath most precious within it be 

cast.' 
The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff, 
But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Eome seem'd likely 

enough 
To be ruin'd, ere this rent in her heart she could 

choke. 
Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke : 

* O Quirites 1 to this Heaven's question is come : 

* What to Rome is most precious ? The manhootl 

of Rome.' 
He plunged, and the gulf closed. 

The tale is not new ; 
But the moral applies many ways, and is true. 
How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be 

destroy'd ? 
'T is a warm human life that must fill up the void. 
Through many a heart runs the rent in the fable ; 
But who to discover a Curtius is able ? 



Back she came from her long hiding-place, at the 

source 
Of the sunrise ; where, fair in their fabulous course, 
itun the rivers of Eden : an exile again. 
To the cities of Europe — the scenes, and the men, 
And the life, and the ways, she had: left: still 

oppress'd 
With the same hungry heart, and unpeaceabla 

breast. 
The same, to the same things 1 The world she had 

quitted 
With a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon 

flitted 
Through the salons and clubs, to the great satis- 
faction 
Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. 
The enchanting Lucile, the gay Countess, once 

mnra 



186 LUCiLE. [PaIvT 11. 

To her old friend, the World, had reopcn'd her 

door; 
The World came, and shook hands, and was 

pleased and amused 
With what the World then went away and abused. 
From the woman's fair fame it in naught could 

detract, 
'T was the woman's free genius it vex'd and altack'd 
With a sneer at her freedom of action and speech. 
But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not 

reach 
The lone heart they aim'd at. Her tears fell be- 
yond 
The world's limit, to feel that the world could 

respond 
To that heart's deepest, innermost yearning, in 

naught. 
'T was no longer this earth's idler inmates she 

sought : 
The wit of the woman sufficed to engage 
In the woman's gay court the first men of the age. 
Some had genius ; and all, wealth of mind to confer 
On the world : but that wealth was not lavish'd for 

her. 
For the genius of man, though so human indeed, 
When cali'd out to man's help by some great hu- 
man need. 
The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses 
To use what it hoards for mankind's nobler uses. 
Genius touches the world at but one point alone 
Of that spacious circumference, never quite known 
To the world : all the infinite number of lines 
That radiate thither a mere point combines, 
But one only, — some central affection apart 
From the reach of the world, in which Genius is 

Heart, 
And love, life's fine centre, includes heart and 

mind. 
And therefore it was that Lucile sigh'd to fiind 



Canto Lj lucile. 187 

Men of genius appear, one and all, in her ken. 
When they stoop'd themselves to it, as mere clever 

men ; 
Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are 

unfm-l'd 
Worlds new-fashion'd for man, as mere men of the 

world. 
And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight 
Of the sunset of youth, with her face toward the 

light. 
And watch'd her own shadow grow long at her feet, 
As though stretch'd out, the shade of some other to 

meet. 
The woman felt homeless and childless : in scorn 
She seem'd mock'd by the voices of children un- 
born ; 
And when from these sombre reflections away 
She turn'd, with a sigh, to that gay world, more 

say . . . 

For her ^jresence within it, she knew herself friend- 
less ; 

That her path led from peace, and that path ap- 
pear'd endless ! 

Chat even her beauty had been but a snare, 

And her wit sharpen'd only the edge of despair. 



iVith a face all transfigured and flush'd by surprise, 

Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep search- 
ing eyes 

She look'd into his own. Not a word that she said, 

Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betray'd. 

She seem'd to smile through him, at something 
beyond : 

When she answer'd his questions, she seem'd to 
respond 

To some voice in herself. With no trouble de- 
scried 

To each troubled inquiry sLe calmly replied 



188 LUCILE. [Pa«t II. 

Not so he. j±\j the sight of that face back again 
To his mind came the ghost of a lono;-stifled pain, 
A remember'd resentment, half check'd by a wild 
And relentful regret hke a motherless child 
Softly seeking admittance with plaintive appeal 
To the heart which resisted its entrance. 

Lucile 
And himself thus, however, with freedom allow'd 
To old friends, talking still side by side, left the 

crowd, 
By the crowd unobserved. Not unnoticed, how- 
ever, 
By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never 
Seen her husband's new friend. 

She had follow'd by chance, 
Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance 
Which the Duke, when he witness'd their meeting, 

had turn'd 
On Lucile and Lord Alfred ; and, scared, she dis- 

cern'd 
On his features the shade of a gloom so profound 
That she shudder'd instinctively. Deaf to the 

sound 
Of her voice, to some startled inquiry of hers 
He rephed not, but murmur'd, ' Lucile de Nevers 
' Once again then ? so be it 1 * In the mind of that 

man. 
At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the 

plan 
Of a purpose mahgnant and dark, such alone 
(To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) 
As could spring fi-om the cloudy, fierce chaos of 

thought 
By which aU his nature to tumult was wrought. 



•Sol* he thought, Hheymefct thus: and reweare 

the old charm ! 
* And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his 

arm. 



Canto I.] lucile. 189 

*• And she lieeda me not, seeks me not, recks not of 

me 1 
' Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be 
' Loved by one — her own rival — more fair and 

more young ? ' 
The serpent rose m him : a serpent which, stung. 
Sought to sting. 

Each unconscious, indeed, of the eye 
Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by, 
In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile 
Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts 

touch'd. Meanwhile 
The Muse of this story, convinced that they need 

her. 
To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader. 



The Duke, with that sort of aggressive false praise 
Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to raise 
From the listener (as sometimes a judge, just before 
He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er 
The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly 
With the man he is minded to hang by and by), . 
Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect 
In the face of Matilda the growing etiect 
Of the words he had dropp'd. There 's no weapon 

that slays 
Its victim so surely (if well aim'd) as praise. 
Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen : and 

now 
Each was silent, preoccupied, thoughtful. 

You know 
There are moments when silence, prolong'd and 

unbroken, 
More expressive may be than all words ever spoken. 
It is when the heart has an instinct of what 
In the heart of another is passing. And tha*" 

Whence 



190 LUCILE. [Part II 

To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous fiame ? 
What weigh'd down her head ? 

All your eye could discover 
Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover 
"j?hat trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew. 
She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. 
The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell 
Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. 
She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush-rose 

blossom 
Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her 

bosom : 

* This poor flower,' she said, ' seems it not out of 

place 
In this hot, lamplit air, with its fresh, fragile grace ? 
She bent her head low as she spoke. With a smile 
The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the 

while. 
And continued on his side the silence. He knew 
This would force his companion their talk to renew 
At the point that he wish'd ; and Matilda divined 
The significant pause with new trouble of mind. 
She Hfted one moment her head ; but her look 
Encounter'd the ardent regard of the Duke, 
And dropp'd back on her llow'ret abash'd. Then 

still seeking 
The assurance she fancied she show'd him by speak- 
ing, 
She conceived herself safe in adopting again 
The theme she should most have avoided just then. 

XXI, 

* Duke,' she said, . . . and she felt, as she spoke, hex 

cheek bum'd, 

* You know, then, this . . . lady ? * 

' Too well 1 ' he retum'd. 

Lady Alfred. 
True ; you drew with emotion her portrait just now. 



Canto I.] lucile. 191 

The Duke. 

With emotion ? 

Lady Alfred. 

Yes, yes ! you described her, I know, 
As possoss-d of a charm all unrivall'd. 

The Duke. 

Alasl 
You mistook me completely ! You, madam, surpass 
This Countess as moonlight does lamplight ; as 

youth 
Surpasses its best imitations ; as truth 
The fairest of falsehoods surpasses ; as nature 
Surpasses art's masterpiece ; ay, as the creature 
Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpasses 
All the charms got by heart at the world's looking- 

3Sl 



* Yet you said,* — she continued with some trepida- 
tion, 

' That you quite comprehended ' . . . a slight hesi- 
tation 

Shook the sentence, ... * a passion so strong as ' . . 

The Duke. 

True, true ! 
But not in a man that had once look'd at you. 
Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or . . . 

' Hush, hush ! 
She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush. 
' Between man and woman these things differ so ! 
'It may be that the world pardons . '. . (how should 

I know ?) 
' In you what it visits on us ; or 't is true, 
' It may be, that we women are better tlian you. 



192 LUCILE. [Part 1L 



The Duke. 

Wlio denies it ? Yet, madam, once more you mis- 
take. 
The world, in its judgment, some diflference may 

make 
'Twixt tlie man and the woman, so far as respects 
Its social enactments ; but not as aflfects 
The one sentiment which, it were easy to prove, 
Is the sole law we look to the moment we love. 

Ladt Alfred. 

That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe 
Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear 
1 have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress 
Or account for the feelings which sway it. 

'Yesl yes! 
* That is too true indeed I ' . . . the Duke sigh'd. 

And again 
For one moment in silence continued the twain. 



At length the Duke slowly, as though he had 

needed 
All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded : 
' And yet ! . . . what avails, then, to woman the gift 

* Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift 

' Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one de- 
spair, 

* One pang of wrong'd love, to which women less 

fair 

* Ai'e exposed, when they love ? ' 

With a quick change of tone, 
As tho' by resentment impell'd, he went on : — 
' The name that you bear, it is whisper'd, you took 

* From love, not convention. Well, lady, . . . that 

look 
' So excited, so keen, on the face you must know 



Canto I. J lucile. 193 

* Throughout all its expressions, — that rapturous 

glow — 

* Those eloc^uent features — significant eyes — 

* Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no sur- 

prise,' 
(He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door. 
Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred) . . . ' before. 
' Have you ever once seen what just now you may 

view 

* In that face so familiar ? ... no, lady, *t is new. 

* Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, 

* Are you loved ? ' . . . 



He look'd at her — paused — felt if thus far 
The ground held yet. The ardour with which he 

had spoken. 
This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken, 
Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear, 
As though some indefinite danger were near. 
With composure, however, at once she replied : — 

* 'T is three years since the day when I first was a 

bride, 

* And my husband I never had cause to suspect ; 

* Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. . 

* Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see — 

* See, or fancy — some moment's oblivion of me, 
< I trust that I too should forget it, — for you 

' Must have seen that my heart is my husband's.' 

The hue 
On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the 

Duke 
She had utter'd this vague and half-frighten'd 

rebuke. 
Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word 
Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be 

heard. 
There was silence again. 

A great step had been made 



194 LUCILE. [Paut n. 

By the Duke in the words he that evening had said 
There, half-drown'd by the music, Matilda, that 

night, 
Had listen'd, — long listen'd — no doubt, in despite 
Of herself, to a voice she should never had heard. 
And her heart by that voice had been troubled and 

stirr'd. 
And so, having sufFer'd in silence his eye 
To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh : 



* Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade 
' By disclosing my own V The position,' he said, 

'• In which we so strangely seem placed may excuse 

* The frankness and force of the words which I use. 
*You say that your heart is your husband's: you 

say 
' That you love him. You think so, of course, 
lady . . , nay, 

* Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt 

*■ But, trust me, no true love there can be without 
*its dread penalty — jealousy. 

' Well, do not start 1 
' Until now, — either thanks to a singular art 

* Of supreme self-control, you have held them all 

down 
♦Unreveal'd in your heart, — or you never have 

known 
' Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs 

* Which deep passion engenders ; that angui&b 

which hangs 

* On the heart like a nightmare, by jealousy bred. 

* But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed 

* Of a blissful secuiity thus hath reposed 

' Undisturb'd with mild eyelids on happiness ciosedj 

* Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, 

' And most cruel, that happy repose you so trust, 

* To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, 

* For how long I know not, continue to s.^'C 



C4NTO l.\ LUCILE. idH 

« A woman whose place rivals yours in the life 
' And the heart which not only your title of wife, 

* But also (forgive me !) your beauty alone, 

* Should have made wholly yours ? — You, who 

gave all your own ! 

* Reflect ! — 't is the peace of existence you stake 

' On the turn of a die. And for whose — for his 

sake ? — 
Wliile you witness this woman, the false point of 

view 
' From which she m list now be regarded by you 

* Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be, 

* The charms I admit she possesses. To me 

* They are trivial indeed : yet to your eyes, I fear 
' And foresee, they will true and intrinsic appear. 
' Self unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess 

* How more lovely by far is the grace you possess, 

* You will wrong your iwn beauty. The graces of 

art, 

* You will take for the natural charm of the heart ; 

* Studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee, 

* Will too soon in that fatal comparison be 

' To your fancy more fair than that sweet timid 
sense 

' Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best elo- 
quence. 

* O then, lady, then you will feel in your heart 

* The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart ! 

* While you see her, yourself you no longer will 

see, — 
' You will hear her, and hear not yourself, — yon 

will be 
' Unhappy ; unhappy because you will deem 
' Your own power less great than her power will 

seem. 
' And I shall not be by your side, day by day, 
' In despite of your noble displeasure, to say 

* " You are fairer than she, as the star is more fair 

* '* Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty cap 

wear I " ' 



196 LUCILE. [Part JL 



This appeal, both by looks and by language, in- 
creased 
The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast. 
Still she spoke with what calmness she could — 

' Sir, the while 

* I thank you,' she said, with a faint scornful smile, 
' For your fervour in painting my fancied distress ? 

* Allow me the right some surprise to express 
' At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me 

* The possible depth of my own misery.' 

* That zeal, would not startle you, madam,* he 

said, 
'Could you read in my heart, as myself I have 
read, 

* The peculiar interest which causes that zeal — 

Matilda her terror no more could conceal. 

' Duke,' she answer'd in accents short, cold, and 

severe. 
As she rose from her seat, ' I continue tp hear ; 
' But permit me to say, I no more understand.* 

' Forgive 1 ' with a nervous appeal of the hand, 
And a well-feign'd confusion of voice and of look, 

* Forgive, oh, forgive me I ' at once cried the Duke. 
' I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your 

leave 

*I entreat (from your anger those words to re- 
trieve) 

' For one moment to speak of myself, — for I think 

' That you wrong me — ' 

His voice, as in pain, seem'd to sink f 

And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, glisten'd. 

XXVI. 
Matilda, despite of herself, sat and listen'd. 



Cajjto L] LUCiLE. 19 r 



* Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be, 
*Worldl}', frivolous, careless, my heart hides in 

me,' 
He continued, ' a sorrow which draws me to side 

* With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not,' ha 

cried, 

* At so strange an avowal. 

* I seek at a ball, 

* For instance, — the beauty admired by all ? 

* No ! some plain, insignificant creature, who sits 

* Scorn'd of course by the beauties, and shunn'd by 

the wits. 

* All the world is accustom'd to wound, or neglect, 

* Or oppress, claims my heart and commands my 

respect. 

* No Quixote, I do not affect to belong, 

* I admit, to those charter'd redressers of wrong ; 

' But I seek to console, where 1 can. 'T is a part 
' Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no smart.' 
These trite words, from the tone which he gave 

them, received 
An appearance of truth, which might well be 

believed 
By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. 

And so 
He continued . . . ' O lady ! alas, could you knc^r 

* What injustice and wrong in this world I have 

seen I 

* How many a woman, believed to have been 

* Without a regret, I have known turn aside 

' To burst into heart-broken tears undescried ! 
' On how many a hp have I witness'd the smile 
Which but hid what was breaking the poor heart 

the while ! ' 
Said Matilda, ' Your hfe, it would seem, then, must 

be 

* One Jong act of devotion.' 



198 LUCILE. [Paut a 

' Perhaps so,' said he ; 

* But at least that devotion small merit can boast, 

* For one day may yet come, ~- if one day at the 

most, — 
When, perceiving at last all the difference — how 
great ! — 

* 'Twixt the heart that neglects, and the heart that 

can wait, 

* 'Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that paia- 

* Some woman, that else might have pass'd in dis- 

dain 

* Or indifference by me, — in passing that day 

* Might pause, with a word or a smile, to repay 

* Th^ devotion, — and then ' . . . 

XX VIII. 

To Matilda's relief 
At that moment her husband approach'd. 

With some gnef 
1 must own that her welcome, perchance, was ex- 

press'd 
The more eagerly just for one twinge in her breast 
Of a conscience dlsturb'd, and her smile not lesa 

warm. 
Though she saw the Comtesse de Ne^-ers on his 

arm. 
The Duke turn'd, and adjusted his collar. 

Thought he, 
' Good ! the gods fight my battle to-night. I foresee 
' That the family doctor 's the part I must play. 
' Very well ! but the patients my visits shall pay.' 
Lord Alfred presented Lucile to his wife ; 
And Matilda, repressing with efibrt the strife 
Of emotions which made her voice ^hake, mur« 

mur'd low 
Some faint, troubled greeting. The Duke, with a 

bow 
Wliich betoken'd a distant defiance, replied 
To Lucile's stai'tled cry, as surprised she descried 



Canto I.] lucile. 199 

Her foi-mer gay ^vooe^. Anon, with tlie grace 
Of that kindness which seeks to win kindness, her 

place 
She assumed bv Matilda, unconscious perchance. 
Or resolved not to notice, the half-frighten'd glance 
That folloTv'd that movement. 

The Duke to his feet 
Arose ; and, in silence, relinquish'd his seat. 
One must own that the moment was awkward for 

all ; . 
But nevertheless, before long, the strange thrall 
Of Lucile's gracious tact was by every one felt, 
And from each the reserve seem'd, reluctant, to 

melt ; 
Thus, conversing together, the whole of the four 
Thro' the crowd saunter'd, smiling. 



Approaching the door, 
Eugbne de Luvois, who had fallen behind, 
By Lucile, after some hesitation, was join'd 
With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal 
Which appear'd to imply, without words, ' Let us 

feel 
' That the friendship between us in years that are 

fled, 
*H£is survived one mad moment forgotten,* she 

said, 

* You remain, Duke, at Ems ? * 

He tum'd on her a look 
Of irigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke ; 
And then, with a more than significant glance 
At Matilda, maliciously answer'd, ' Perchance 

* I have here an attraction. And you ? ' he re« 

turn'd. 
Lucile's eyes had follow'd his own, and disciern'd 
The boast they implied. 

He repeated, * And you ? 
And, still watching Matilda, she answer'd, ' I t/x>. 



200 LUCILE. [Part P 

And he thought, as with that word she left him, sh' 

sigh'd. 
The next moment her place she resumed by tht, 

side 
Of Matilda ; and soon they shook hands at the gat* 
Of the selfsame hotel. 



One depress'd, one elate, 
The Duke and Lord Alfred again, thro' the gloomi 
Of the thick linden alley, return'd to the Kooms. 
His cigar each had lighted, a moment before. 
At the inn, as they turn'd, arm-in-arm, from th» 

door. 
Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits, experto 
(Me miserum quoties /) crede Roberto. 
In silence, awhile, they walk'd onward. 

At last 
The Duke's thoughts to language half-conscioush 

pass'd. 

The Duke. 
Once more I yet once more 1 

Lord Alfred. 

What? 

The Duke. 

We meet her, once more, 
The woman for whom we two madmen of yore 
(Laugh, mon cher Alfred, laugh !) were about to 

destroy 
Each other I 

Lord Alfred. 

It is not with laughter that I 
Baisc the ghost of that once troubled time. Say I 

can you 
Recall it with coolness and quietude now ? 



Caxto .U lucile. 201 

The Dukk. 

Now ? yes \ I, mon cher, am a true Parisien : 
Now, the red revolution, the tocsin, and then 
The dance and the play. I am now at the play. 

Lord Alfred. 

At the play, are you now ? Then perchance 1 

now may 
Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until 
Such a moment, I waited .... 

The Duke. 

Oh 1 ask what you wiU. 
Franc jeu 1 on the table my cards I spread out. 
Ask I 

Lord Alfred. 

Duke, you were call'd to a meeting (no doubt 
You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night 
When you went; and before you return'd it was 

light. 
We met : you accosted me then with a brow 
Bright with triumph : your words (you remember 

them now ?) 
Were, * Let us be friends 1 ' 

The Duke. 

Well? 

LoBD Alfred. 

How then, after that, 
Can you and she meet as acquaintances ? 

The Duke. 

What 

Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, 
Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips of 
hers? 



•^02 LUCILE. [Pari IL 

Lord Alfred. 

In our converse to-night we avoided the past- 
But the question I ask should be answer'd at last : 
By you, if you will ; if you will not, by her. 

The r»uKE. 

Indeed ? but that question, milord, can it stir 
Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Yes. Esteem may remain, altho' love be no more. 
Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (under- 
stand 
To my ivife /) to present her. I did so. Her hand 
Has clasp'd that of Matilda. We gentlemen owe 
Respect to the name that is ours : and, if so, 
To the woman that bears it a twofold respect. 
Answer, Due de Luvois ! Did Lucile then reject 
The proffer you made of your hand and youi 

name? 
Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim 
Urged before? I ask bluntly this question, be- 
cause 
My title to do so is clear by the laws 
That all gentlemen honour. Make only one sign 
That you know of Lucile de Nevers aught, in fine, 
For which, if your own virgin sister were by. 
From Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, 

and I 
And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow. 



The Duke 
Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look 
Of the man at his side, that he meant what he 

said. 
And there flash'd in a moment these thoughts thro* 

his head: 



Canto L] lucile. 203 

* Leave Ems! would that suit me V no! that were 

again 

* To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain, 

* She herself will . . . et puis, il a raison ; on est 

' Gentilhomme apres tout ! ' Pie replied, therefore, 

' 'Nay 1 
♦Madame de Nevers had rejected me. I, 

* In those days, I was mad ; and in some mad 

reply 
' I threaten'd the life of the rival to whom 
' That rejection was due, I was led to presume. 

* She fear'd for his life ; and the letter which then 
' She wrote me, I show'd you ; we met : and again 

* My hand was refused, and my love was denied. 

' And the glance you mistook was the vizard which 
Pride 

* Lends to Humiliation.' 

* And so,* half in jest 
He went on, * in this best world, 't is all for the 

best! 
♦You are wedded (bless'd Englishman!), wedded 

to one 
' Whose past can be call'd into question by none 

* And I (fickle Frenchman !) can still laugh to fed 

* I am lord of myself, and the Mode : and Lucile 
' Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair 

* As yon German moon o'er the linden-tops there ! 

* A Dian in marble that scorns any troth 

'With the httle love-gods, whom I thank for ua 
both, 

* Wliile she smiles from her lonely Olympus apart, 
' That her arrows are marble as well as her heart. 

* Stay at Ems, Alfred Vargravs ! ' 



The Duke, with a smile, 
Tum'd and enter'd the Rooms which, thus talking, 

meanwhile, 
They had reach'd. 



204 LUCILE. [Part H. 



Alfred Vargrave strode on (overthrown 
Heart and mind !) in the darkness bewilder'd, alone: 

* And so,' to himself did he mutter, ' and so 

' 'T was to rescue my life, gentle spirit ! and, oh, 

* For this did I doubt her ? . . . a light word — a 

look — 
The mistake of a moment! ... for this I for- 
sook — 

* For this ? Pardon, pardon, Lucile 1 O Lucile 1 * 
Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal. 
Weary changes on one dirge-like note thro' his 

brain. 
As he stray'd down the darkness. 



Re-entering again 
The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turn'd to 

roulette, 
And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, 

and yet 
He still smiled : night deepen'd ; he play'd his last 

number : 
Went home : and soon slept : and still smiled in his 

slumber. 



In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefoucauld wrote, 
*In the grief or mischance of a friend, you may 
note, 

* There is something which always gives pleasure.' 

Alas 
That reflection fell short of the truth as it was. 
La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down — 
No misfortune, but what some one turns to his 

own 
Advantage its mischief: no sorrow, but of it 

* There ever is somebody ready to profit : 



Canto 1.] lucile. 205 

' No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all 
' Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall 
' Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it.' 
Burn thy book, O La Eochefoucauld 1 

Fool ! one man's wit 
All men s selfishness how should it fathom ? 

O sage, 
Ftest thou satiriz<5 Nature ? 

She laughs at thy p£gs. 



206 LUCILM. [Fart n 



CANTO n. 



COUSIN JOHN TO COUSIN ALFRED, 

' London, 18 — 

* My dear Alfred, 

' Your last letters put me in pain 

* This contempt of existence, this listless disdain 

* Of your own life, — its joys and its duties, — the 

deuce 

* Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse 1 

* I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your 

leg, 

* And compel you to stump through the world on a 

peg. 

* I wish that you had, like myself (more 's the pity 1), 
' To sit seven hours on this cursed committee. 

' I wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread 

* Of another — (what is it that Dante has said ?) 

* And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word, 

* I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd 

* On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had 

cause 
' For neglecting life's duties, and damning its lawsl 

* This pressure against all the purpose of life, 

* This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife, 

* Betoken'd, I grant that it may be in truth, 

* The richness and strength of the new wine of 

youth. 

* But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with 

time, 
' Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavour sublime, 

* It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste, 

* Wliy, the sooner to throw it away that we liasie 



Oanto D.] lucile. 207 

The better, I take it. And this vice of suarliag, 
Self-love's little lapdog, the over-fed darling 
Of a hypochondriacal fancy, appears, 
To my thinking at least, in a man of your years, 
At the midnoon of manhood, with plenty to do, 
And every incentive for doing it too, — 
With, the duties of life just sufficiently pressing 
For prayer, and of joys more than most men for 

blessing ; 
With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full 

purse, — 
Like poltroonery, puerile truly, or worse I 
I wish I could get you at least to agree 
To take life as it is, and consider with me, 
If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers ; 
It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears. 
Do you think none have known but yourself all 

the pain 
Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain ? 
And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt, 
'Twixt the life that 's within, and the life that 'fl 

without ? 
What one of us jfinds the world just as he likes ? 
Or gets what he wants when he wants it ? Or 

strikes 
Without missing the thing that he strikes at the 

first? _ 
Or walks without stumbling ? Or quenches his 

thirst 
At one draught ? Bah 1 I tell you 1 I, bachelor 

John, 
Have had griefs of my own. But what then ? I 

push on 
-All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain 
Of my last fall, albeit 1 may stumble again. 
God means every man to be happy, be sure. 
He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure. 
Our duty down here is to do, not to know. 
Live as thourrh life were earnest, and life will hi 



208 LUClLE. [Part R. 

'Let each moment, like Time's last ambassador, 
come : 

* It will wait to deliver its message ; and some 

* Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed 

* A man does, but the way that he does it, should 

plead 

* For the man's compensation in doing it. 

' Here, 

* My next neighbour 's a man with twelve thousand 

a year, 

* Who deems that life has not a pastime mort 

pleasant 
' Than to follow a fox, or to slaughter a pheasant. 

* Yet this fellow goes through a contested election, 

* Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejec- 

tion, 
' All the day through upon a committee, and late 

* To the last, every night, through the di'eary de- 

bate, 

* As. though he were getting each speaker by heart, 

* Though amongst them he never presumes to take 

part. 

* One asks one's self why, without murmur or ques- 

tion, 

* He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his diges- 

tion, 

* For a labour of which the result seems so small. 
' " The man is ambitious," you say. Not at all. 

* He has just sense enough to be fully aware 

' That he never can hope to be Premier, or share 
' The renown of a Tully ; — or even to hold 

* A subordinate office. He is not so bold 

* As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear 

* With patience his modest opinions to hear. 

* " But he wants something I " 

' What 1 with twelve thousand a year ? 

* What could Government give him would be half 

so dear 

* To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun 



Canto n.] lucile. 209 

'Througli his own pheasant woods, or a capital 
run '? 

* " No ; but vanity fills out the emptiest brain ; 

* The man would be more than his neighbours, 't ia 

plain ; 

* And the drudgery drearily gone through in town 
' Is more than repaid by provincial renown. 

' Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose, 
' Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance ; 
the goose, 

* If the Fashion to him open one of its doors, 

* As proud as a sultan, returns to his boors." 
' Wrong again 1 if you think so. 

' For, primo ; my friend 
' Is the head of a family known from one end 
' Of his shire to the other, as the oldest ; and there- 
fore 
•He despises fine lords and fine ladies. He care 

for 
A peerage ? no truly ! Secondo ; he rarely 
Or never goes out : dines at Bellamy's sparely, 
' And abhors what you call the gay world. 

' Then, I ask, 
'What inspires, and consoles, such a self-imposed 

task 
' As the life of this man, — but the sense of its 

duty? 
' And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest 

beauty 
' Have never inspired in my soul that intense, 

* Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense 

' Of heart-felt admiration I feel for this man, 

* As I see him beside me ; — there, wearing the 

wan 

'London daylight away, on his humdrum com- 
mittee ; 

' So unconscious of all that awakens my pity, 

* And wonder — and worship, I might say, 

' To me 
14 



210 LUCILE. [Part 11. 

* There seems something nobler than genias to be 

* In that dull patient labor no genius relieves, 

* That absence of all joy which yet never grieves ; 
' The humility of it ! the grandeur withal I 

' The sublimity of it ! And yet, should you call 
' The man's own very slow apprehension to this, 
' He would ask, with a stare, what sublimity is I 

* His work is the duty to which he was born ; 

* He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn : 

' And this man is no uncommon type (I thank 
Heaven !) 

* Of this land's common men. In all other lands, 

even 

* The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 't is the 

reason 

* That government oscillates ever 'twixt treason 

* And tyranny elsewhere. 

' I wander away 

* Too far, though, from what I was wishing to say. 

* You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the 

soul 

* Is immortal ; and put this in rhyme, on the whole, 

* Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart 

* Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art : — 

* The Greek Psyche, — that 's beauty, — the perfect 

ideal : 

* But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real, 

* With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those 

pale 

* Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. 
'You have studied all this. Then, the universe, 

too, 
^ not a mere house to be lived in, for you. 
' Geology opens the mind. So you know 

* Something also of strata and fossils ; these show 

* The bases of cosmical structure : some mention 

* Of the iiebulous theory demands your attention ; 
^ Aiid so on. 

' In short, it is clear the interior 



Canto U.^ lucile. 211 

' Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior 
' In fibre, and fuhiess, and function, and fire, 
' To that of my poor parliamentary squire ; 
' But your life leaves upon me (forgive me thia 
heat 

* Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incom' 

plete. 
You fiy high. But what is it, in truth, ycu flj 
at ? _ 

* My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. 

* An old illustration 's as good as a new, 

* Provided the old illustration be true. 

* We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we 

fly, 
' Though we marvel to see them ascending so high ; 
' Things slight in themselves, — long-tail'd toys, and 

no more ! 
What is it that makes the kite steadily soar 
'Thi'ough the realms where the cloud and the 

whirlwind have birth. 
But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth ? 
' I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, 
' And the hornbook I learn 'd on my poor mother's 

knee. 
' In truth, I suspect little else do we learn 
' From this great book of life, which so shrewdly wo 

turn, 

* Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, 
' What we learn'd in the hornbook of childhood. 

'Your caso 

* Is exactly in point. 

' Fly your kite, if you please, 
' Out of sight : let it go where it will, on the 
breeze ; 

* But 3ut not the one thread by which it is bound, 
' Be it never so high, to this poor human ground. 

* No man is the absolute lord of his life. 

^ You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and 
dear wife. 



212 LUCILE. [PaJRT n 

' If 1 often have slgh'd by my own silent lire, 

* With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire 

' For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and 

fair, 
' Some dull winter evening to solace and share 
' Witl the love which the world its good children 

allows 

* To shake hands with, — in short, a legitimate 

spouse, 

* This thought has consoled me : " at least I have 

given 
'For my own good behaviour no hostage to 
heaven." 

* You have, though. Forget it not 1 faith, if you 

do, 
*I would rather break stones on a road than be 

you. 
' If any man wilfully injured, or led 
' That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head, 
' Even though you yourself were the sinner ! 

' And this 

* Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, 

amiss !) 
' To the matter I meant to have mention'd at once, 

* But these thoughts put it out of my head for the 

nonce. 
' Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams, 

* Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs, 

* The wolf best received by the flock he devours 

* Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours. 

* At least, this has long been my settled convic- 

tion, 
And I almost would venture at once the predic- 
tion 

* That before very long — but no matter ! I trust 
' For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust. 

But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on 
■ The score of such men as, with both God and 
Mammon, 



CAirro n.J LUCILE. 213 

* Seem so shrewdly familiar. 

' Neglect not this wai'ning. 

* There were rumours afloat in the City this morn- 

* Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows ? 

would he fleece 
^ At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece ? 
' For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune 
' Your attention too early. If all your wife's for^ 

tune 
^ Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner, 
' ^AHio would dice with the devil, and yet rise up 

winner, 

* I say, lose no time ! get it out of the grab 

* Of her trustee and relative, Ridley MacNab. 

* I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out, 

* And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. 
' A wink is as good as a nod to the wise. 

' Verhum sap. I admit nothing yet justifies 
My mistrust ; but I have in my own mind a notion 
Tliat old Kidley's white waistcoat, and airs of 

devotion. 
Have long been the only ostensible capital 
On which he does business. If so, time niust sap 

it all, 
Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait, 
Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late. 
I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect ; 
I give you my notions. Form yours, and reflect. 

* My love to Matilda. Her mother looks well. 

* I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell 

* Worth your hearing. We think that the govern- 

ment here 
'Will not last out next session. Fitz Funk is a 

peer, 
' You will see by the Times. There are symptom! 

which show 

* That the ministers now are preparing to go, 
'And finish their feast of the loaves «>nd the fishe# 



2U LUCILE. [Part IL 

* It is evident that they are clearing the dishes, 

' And cramming their pockets with bon-bons. Your 
news 
Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues, 

* Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so, 

' You have met with that hot-headed Frenchman ? 

I know 
*That the man is a sad mauvais sujet. Take 

care 

* Of Matilda. I wish I could join you both there ; 
' But, before I am free, you are sure to be gone. 

* Good-by, my dear fellow. 

' Yours, anxiously, 

' John,* 



This is just the advice I myself would have given 
To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin, which 

Heaven 
Be praised, I am not. But it reach'd him indeed 
In an unlucky hour, and received little heed. 
A half-languid glance was the most that he lent at 
That time to these homilies. Primum dementat 
Quem Deus vult perdere. Alfred in fact 
Was behaving just then in a way to distract 
Job's self had Job known him. The more you *d 

have thought 
The Duke's court to Matilda his eye would have 

caught. 
The more did his aspect grow listless to hers, 
And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers. 
And Matilda, the less she found love in the look 
Of her husband, the less did she shrink from the 

Duke. 
With each day that pass'd o'er them, they each, 

heart from heart, 
Woke to feel themselves further and further apart. 
More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the 

table, 



Canto II.] lucile. 215 

Play'd high and lost more than to lose he waa 

able. 
He gre"w feverish, querulous, absent, perverse, — 
Ajid here I must mention, what made matters 

worse, 
That Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel 
With the Vargraves resided. It needs not to tell 
That they all saw too much of each other. The 

weather 
Was so fine that it brought them each day all 

together 
In the garden, — to listen, of course, to the band. 
The house was a sort of phalanstery ; and 
Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover 
A mutual passion for music. Moreover 
The Duke was an excellent tenor : could sing 
' A7ige si pure ' in a way to bring down on the win» 
All the angels St. Cicely play'd to. My lord 
Would also at times, when he was not too bored, 
Play Beethoven, and Wagner's new music, not ill; 
With some little things of his own, showing skill. 
For which reason, as well as for some others too. 
Their rooms were a pleasant enough rendezvous. 
Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless co- 
quette !) 
All the mischief she could not but mark ? 

Patience yet 1 



In that garden, an arbour, withdrawn from the sue, 
By laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun, 
Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, when 

the heat 
Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat. 
And here, with some friends of their own little 

world, 
In the warm afternoons, till the shadows uncurl'd 
From the feet of the lindens, and crept thro' the 



216 LUCILE. [Part B. 

Their blue hours would this gay little colony pass. 
The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring, 
Undeterr'd by tobacco, their work there, and sing 
Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward the 

bee 
Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there 

was tea 
(A luxury due to Matilda), and ice, 
Fruit, and cofi'ee. "^Q "Ea-nepe, navra (fjepeis 1 
Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided 
O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily provided. 
With the Duke, and a small German Prince with a 

thick head, 
And an old Russian Countess both witty and 

wicked, 
And two Austrian Colonels, — that Alfred, who yet 
Was lounging alone with his last cigarette, 
Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself pacing slow 
'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and 

fro, 
And joining her, cried, ' Thank the good stars, we 

meet I 

* I have so much to say to you ! ' 

' Yes ? . .' with her sweet 
Serene voice, she replied to him . . ' Yes ? and I 

too 
Was wishing, indeed, to say somewhat to you.' 
She was paler just then than her wont was. The 

sound 
Of her voice had within it a sadness profound. 

* You are ill ? ' he exclaim'd. 

' No r she hurriedly said, 
•No, no!' 

* You alarm me ! * 

She droop'd down her head. 

* If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to 

divine 

* The purpose of what has been passing in mine, 
•My farewell can scarcely alarm you.' 



QaxVO n.] LUCILE. 217 

LoBD Alfked. 

Lucile I 
rour farewell I you go 1 

The Countess. 

Yes, Lord Alfred.. 

Lord Alfred. 

Bevedtl 

The cause of tliis sudden unkindness. 

The Countess. 

Unkind ? 

Lord Alfred. 

Yes I what else is this parting ? 

The Countess. 

No, no ! are you blind ? 
Look into your own heart and home. Can you see 
No reason for this, save unkindness in me ? 
Look into the eyes of your wife — those true eyes 
Too pure and too honest in aught to disguise 
The sweet soul shining thro' them. 

Lord Alfred. 

Lucile ! (first and last 
Be the word, if you will !) let me speak of the past, 
I know now, alas ! tho' I know it too late, 
What pass'd at that meeting which settled my fate. 
Kay, nay, interrupt me not yet I let it be 1 
1 but say what is due to yourself — due to me, 
And must say it. 

He rush'd incoherently on, 
Describing how, lately, the truth he had known, 
To explain how, and whence, he bad wrong'd her 

before, 
A.11 the complicate coil wound about him of yoie, 



218 LUCLLK. [Fart II. 

All the hopes that had flown with the faith that 

was fled, 
And then, O Lucile, what was left me,' he said, 
When my life was defrauded of you, but to take 
That life, as 't was left, and endeavour to make 
Unobserved by anotlier, the void which remain 'd 
Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd, 
' I have striven. One word of unkinduess has 
never 

* Pass'd my lips to Matilda. Her least wish haa 

ever 

* Received my submission. And if, of a truth, 

' I have fail'd to renew what I felt in my youth, 

* I at least have been loyal to what I do feel, 

* Respect, duty, honour, affection. Lucile, 

* I speak not of love now, nor love's lone regret : , 
■^ I would not offend you, nor dare I forget 

' The ties that are round me. But may there 
not be 

* A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me ? 

* O Lucile, answer yes 1 say, indeed, must I deem 

* That dream of the Greek nothing more than a 

dream, 

* Which, of yore, in our youth, ere it could be 

for us 
' Aught, in truth, save a theme it was sweet to 

discuss 
With all else of those loved Grecian teachers of 

ours, — 
•That dream of two souls, from the same parent 

powers, 

* Which, tho' virgin in heart, are yet married in 

mind, ■ 

* Like those twin stars which seem, tho' so distant, 

combined ? 

* Is this creed a delusion in faith, and in act 
A crime ? or, Lucile, may we be not, in fact, 

' To each other yet friends — friends the dearest ? 

'Alas!' 



Camto U.] lucile. 219 

She replied, 'for one moment, perchance, did it 

pass 
Thro' my own heart, that dream which forever 
hath brought 

* To those who indulge it in innocent thought 

* So fatal and evil a waking ! But no. 

'For in lives such as ours are, the Dream-trea 
would grow 

* On the borders of Hades : beyond it, what lies V 

* The wheel of Ixion, alas ! and the cries 

* Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us, 

* Are the days when with innocence we could dis- 

cuss 
' Dreams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreama 

of viy life ! 
' Oh trust me, the best friend you have is your wife. 

* And I — in that pure child's pure virtue, I bow 
' To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow 

' Not one blush when I first took her hand. With 
no blush 

* Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. 

'Hush! hushl 

* I would say what I wish'd to have said when you 

came. 

* Do not think that years leave us and finds us the 

same ! 

* The woman you knew long ago, long ago, 

* Is no more. You yourself have within you, I 

know, 

* The germ of a joy in the years yet to be, 

* Wliereby the past years will bear fruit. As for me, 

* I go my own way, — onward, upward I 

' O yet, 
' Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret, 

* When it came, as it beautified hope ere it fled, — 
' The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead, 

* But it is not corrupted. I too have at last 

* Lived to learn that love is not — (such love as is 

past. 



220 LUCILE. [rART II 

* Such love as youth dreaius of at least) — the sole 

part 
' Of life, which is able to fill up the heart; 
' Eveu that of a ■vvomau. Whoever indeed 
' Is useful cannot be unhappy. This creed 
' Fills the void of existence. Between you and iii« 
Heaven lixes a <;ulf, over which, you must see, 
' 'J'liat our guardian angels can bear us no more. 
' ^^'e each of us stand on an opposite shore. 
' One step forward, and down the abyss we should 

sink. 

* Oh, the day will come yet, and more soon than 

you think, 

* "When lite's hopes will all be new born in your 

heart. 

* And I see in it, liidden, yet ready to st'ift 

* Into blossom, more brightly than ever, the flower 

' Which you deem to be wither'd. For who knows 
the power 

* Of self-renovation in man ? What is more, 

* You will AViike up and find, when this slumber is 

o'er, 

* At your right hand a heart destined, trust me, to 

prove 

* The fulfilment of all you have dream'd of in love. 

' Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn, 

* By an instinct men never attain, to discern 
' Each other's true natures. Matilda is fair, 

* Matilda is young — see her now, sitting there 1 — 
' How tenderly tashion'd — (oh, is she not, say,) 

* To love and be loved ? * 



He turn'd sharply away 
' Matilda is young, and ^Matilda is fair ; 
' Of all that you tell me pray deem me aware ; 
• But Matilda *s a statue, JMatilda 's a child ; 
Matilda loves not — * 

Lucile quietly smiled 



Canto ILJ lucile. 221 

As she answer'd him : — ' Yesterday, all that you say 
'Might be true; it is false, wholly false, thougli, 
to-day.' 

' How V — what mean you ? ' 

' I mean that to-r]ay,' she replied 
" Tiie statue with life has become vivified : 
' I mean that the child to a woman has grown : 
And that woman is jealous.' 

' What ! she V ' with a tons 
Of ironical wonder, he answer'd — 'what, she! 

* She jealous ! — Matilda ! — of whom, pray V — not 

me ! ' 

'My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but yoa 
Is she jealous of. Trust, me. And thank Heaven, 

too, 
Tliat so lately this passion within her hath grown. 
For who shall declare, if for months she ha/1 
known 
' What for days she has known all too keenly, I fear, 
' That knowledge perchance might have cost you 
more dearV 

' Explain ! explain, madam I ' he cried in surprise 
And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. 

' How blind are you men 1 ' she replied. ' Can } 01 

doubt 
' That a woman, young, fair, and neglected — ' 

' Speak o'ltl 
He gasp'd with emotion. ' Lucile ! you mean.— 

what V 

* J)o you doubt her fidelity ? ' 

' Certainly not. 
' I^isten to me, my friend. "What I wish to explain 
' I9 80 hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain 
' From touching a subject so fragile. However, 
' Bear with me awhile, if I frankly endeavour 



222 LUCILE. I Part II 

* To invade for one moment your innermost life. 

^ Your honour, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife, 

* Are dear to me, — most dear I And I am con- 

vinced 
That you rashly are risking that honour/ 

He winced. 
And turn'd pale, as she spoke. 

She had aim'd at his heart, 
And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start, 
That her aim had not miss'd. 

' Stay, Lucile I ' he exclaim'd, 

* What in truth do you mean by these words, 

vaguely framed 
' To alarm me ? Matilda ? — my wife ? — do you 
know ? ' — 

* I know that your wife is as spotless as snow. 

' But I know not how far your continued neglect 
' Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect. 
' Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere 

* Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet clear, 
' Like the indistinct golden and vaporous fleece 

* Which surrounded and hid the celestials in 

Greece 

* From the glances of men, would disperse and 

depart 
' At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart, — 

* For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, 

* A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure ; 

' And the heart left too long to its ravage, in time 
' I\Iay find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime.' 



* Such thoughts could have never,' he falter'd, * ] 

know, 

* Reach'd the heart of Matilda.' 

'Matilda? oh no 
' But reflect ! when such thoughts do not come of 
themselves 



Canto U.J lucile. 223 

' To the heart of a woman neglected, like elvea 

* That seek lonely places, — there rarely is wanting 
' Some voice at lier side, with an evil enchanting 

* To conjure them to her.' 

' O lady, beware ! 

* At this moment, around me I search everywhere 

* For a clew to your words' — 

' You mistake them,' she said^ 
Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made. 
' I was putting a mere hypothetical case ' — 

With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face. 
' Woe to him, . . / he exclaim'd . . . ' woe to him 
that should feel 

* Such a hope ! for I swear, if he did but reveal 

* One glimpse, — it should be the last hope of hia 

life ! ' 
The clench'd hand and bent eyebrow betoken'd *h^ 

strife 
She had roused in his heart. 

' You forget,' she began, 
' That you menace yourself You yourself are the 

man 

* That is guilty. Alas ! must it ever be so ? 

* Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go, 

' And fight our own shadows forever ? O think ! 
' The trial from which you, the stronger onea, 
shrink, 

* You ask woman, the weaker one, still to endurt* ; 

* You bid her be true to the laws you abjure; 

* To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder, 

* With the force that has fail'd you ; and that too, 

when under 
' The assumption of rights which to her you refuse', 
' The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse I 

* Where the contract exists, it involves obligation 
' To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. 
' You unloose, in asserting your own liberty, 

' A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free 



224 LUCILE. [Paet IL 

* Then, O Alfred 1 be juster at heart : and thank 

Heaven 

* That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given 
' That you have not wherewith to reproach her 

albeit 
' You have cause to reproach your own self, cculd 
you see it 1 ' 



In the silence that follow'd the last word she said. 
In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his head, 
Poor Lucile mark'd her words had sufficed to im- 
part 
A new germ of motion and life to that heart 
Of which he himself had so recently spoken 
As dead to emotion — exhausted, or broken I 
New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. 
In the husband indifferent no more to the wife 
She already, as she had foreseen, could discover 
That Matilda had gain'd, at her hands, a new lover 
So after some moments of silence, whose spell 
They both felt, she extended her hand to him. . . . 



WeU? 



* Lucile,' he replied, as that soft, quiet hand 

In his own he clasp'd warmly, ' I both understand 

* And obey you.' 

' Thank Heaven ! ' she murmur'd. 

' Oh, yet, 
' One word, I beseech you 1 I cannot forget,' 
He exclaim'd, ' we are parting for life. You have 

shown 
' My pathway to me : but say, what is your own ? ' 
Tlie calmness with which until then she had spoken 
In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly broken 
i;he tm-n'd from him nervously, hurriedly. 



Canto JI.] luclle. 22ft 

*Nay, 
I know not,' slie murmur'd, * I follow the way 

* Heaven leads me ; I cannot foresee to what end. 

* I know only that far, far away it must tend 

* From all places in which we have met, or might 

meet. 

* Far away 1 — onward — upward ! ' 

A smile strange and sweet 
i\s the incense that rises from some sacred cup 
And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up 
Her whole face, with those words. 

' Wheresoever it be, 

* May all gentlest angels attend you 1 ' sigh'd he, 

* And bear my heart's blessing wherever you are I * 
And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd. 



From afar 
That kiss was, alas I by Matilda beheld 
With far other emotions : her young bosom swell'd, 
And her young cheek with anger was crimson'd. 

The Duke 
Adroitly attracted towards it her look 
By a faint but significant snule. 



Much ill-construed, 
Renown'd Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one, 

strew'd 
With arguments page upon page to teach folks 
That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. 
But it surely is hard, since we can't do without 

them, 
That our senses should make U3 so oft wish to 

doubt them 1 

15 



226 LUCILE. {Part II. 



CANTO m. 



When first the red savage call'd Mau, strode a 

king, 
Thro' the wilds of creation — the very first thing 
That his naked intelligence taught him to feel 
Was the shame of himself; and the wish to conceal 
Was his first step in art. From the apron which 

Eve 
In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave, 
To the furbelow'd flounce and the broad crinoline 
Of my lady - . . you all know of course whom 

mean . . . 
This art of concealment has greatly increas'd. 
A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast ; 
And that drama of passions as old as the hills. 
Which the moral of all men in each man fulfils, 
Is only reveal'd now and then to our eyes 
In the newspaper-files and the courts of assize. 



In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled 
'Mid those walks over which the laburnum-bough 

trembled, 
And the deep-bosom'd lilac, emparadising 
The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and 

sing. 
The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen 

only, 
A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonely 
The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom 
Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom. 



Ca»TO III.] LUOILE. 227 

Like those who, when Florence was yet in her 

glories, 
Cheated death and kill'd time with Boccaccian 

stories. 

But at length the long twilight more dce})ly grew 

shaded. 
And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded. 
And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the bough, 
Tlirough the unfooted garden were slumbering 

now. 
The trees only, o'er every unvisited walk, 
Began on a sudden to whisper and talk. 
And, as each little sprightly and garrulous leaf 
Woke up with an evident sense of relief. 
They all seem'd to be saying . . . ' Once more we'ro 

alone, 
* And, thank Heaven, those tiresome people axe 

gone 1 * 



Through the deep blue concave of the luminous air, 
Large, loving, and languid, the stars here and there, 
Like the eyes of shy passionate women, look'd 

down 
O'er the dim world whose sole tender light was 

their own, 
When Matilda, alone, from her chamber descended, 
And enter'd the garden, unseen, unattended. 
Her forehead was aching and parch'd, and hep 

breast 
By a vague inexpressible sadness oppress'd : 
A sadness which led her, she scarcely knew how, 
And she scarcely knew why . . . (save, indeed, that 

just now 
The house, out of which with a gasp she had fled 
Half-stifled, seem'd ready to sink on her head) . . , 
Out into the night air, the silence, the bright 
Boundless starlight, the cool isolation of night I 



228 LUCiLE. [Pabt n 

Her husband that day had look'd once in her face 
And press'd both her hands in a silent embrace, 
And reproachfully noticed her recent dejection 
With a smile of kind wonder and tacit affection. 
He, of late so indifferent and listless ! ... at last 
Was he startled and aw'd by the change which had 

pass'd 
O'er the once radiant face of his young wife ? 

Whence came 
That long look of solicitous fondness ? . . . the same 
Look and language of quiet affection — the look 
And the language, alas I which so often she took 
For pure love in the simple repose of its purity — 
Her own heart thus lull'd to a fatal security ! 
Ila ! would he deceive her again by this kindness ? 
Had she been, then, O fool 1 in her innocent blind- 
ness 
The sport of transparent illusions ? ah folly ! 
And that feeling, so tranquil, so happy, so holy, 
She had taken, till then, in the heart, not alone 
Of her husband, but also, indeed, in her own, 
For true love, nothing else, after all, did it prove 
But a friendship profanely familiar ? 

' And love ? . . , 

* ^Vhat was love, then ? . . . not calm, not secure — 

scarcely kind ! 

* But in one, all intensest emotions combined : 

' Life and death : pain and rapture : the infinite 
sense . 

* Of something immortal, unknown, and immense ? 
Thus, doubting her way, through the dark, the un- 
known, 

The immeasurable, did she wander alone, 

AVith the hush of night's infinite silence outspread 

O'er the height of night's infinite heavens over 

head. 
There, silently crossing, recrossing the night 
With faint, meteoric, miraculous hght, 
The swift-shooting stars through the infini*-e burn'd, 



Canto UI.] lucile- 229 

And into the infinite ever return' J. 
And, contemplatinG; thus in herself the unknov/n, 
O'er the heart of Matilda there darted and shone 
Thoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, to 

expire 
Not without leavinof traces behind them in fire. 



All absorb'd in the thoughts which fatigued her, a 

prey 
To emotions restrain'd through the wearisome day, 
The young wife, released, for a moment, from all 
The day's"busy-eyed and inquisitive thrall. 
Instead of rejoining the others, no doubt 
By this time in the salon assembled, stole out 
Unobserved to the garden. 

There, wandering at will, 
She soon found herself, all alone, 'neath that still 
And impalpable bower of lilacs, in which 
The dark air with odours hung heavy and rich, 
Like a soul that grows faint with desire. 

'T was the place 
In which she so lately had sat, face to face 
With her husband, — and her, the pale stranger 

detested, 
Whose presence her heart like a plague had in- 
fested. 
The whole spot with evil remembrance was 

haunted. 
Through the darkness there rose on the heart 

which it daunted 
Each dreary detail of that desolate day, 
So full, and yet so incomplete. Far away 
The acacias were muttering, like mischlevoufl 

elves. 
The whole story over again to themselves, 
Each word, — and each word was a wound I By 

degrees 
Her memory mingled its voice with the trees, 



2S0 LUCILE. [Part IL 

And the long streaming sigh of the night-wind 

among them 
Sounded like the reproach which her own heart 

had flunjr them. 



'fi TTOTvia, TTOTvia Ni-^ ! All who grieve 
With life's frustrate desire must, at moments, per- 
ceive, 
Struggling under the infinite pressure of things, 
The repining, imprison'd, and passionate wings 
Of a restless, but ruin'd and impotent angel. 
Searching, ever in vain, his own penal evangel 
He strikes with his shoulders the sides of the world ; 
He wails o'er the unwearied sea ; and floats furl'd 
In the sullen career of the storm ; and again 
His purpose dissolves, like a passion, in rain, 
And relentfully, sighingly, wastes itself out. 
A rainbow, a sunbeam, suffices to rout. 
And refute, and perplex him. But most, when thy 

shade, 
Sweet Spirit of Night, over all things is laid, 
With a wistful self-pity, he peers through the bars 
Of his penthouse, and watches his once native 

stars. 
He seems to be touch'd at the heart with a sense 
Of his own uncompanion'd, remote, and intense 
Isolation ; and fearfully feels where he may 
For communion with man. Then his voice eeeuxa 

to say : 
— ' O child of a race by my ruin o'erthrown i 

* O heart, bound to mine by a sorrow unknown . 

* Upon me the Universe heavily lies, 

* And I suffer 1 I suffer 1 * 

And man's heart replies : 
I suffer 1 I suffer I ' 



CajHTO ffl.] LUCILE. 231 



Perchance (who can tell ?) 
Such a voice thro' the silence, the darkness, then 

feU 
Like the whisper Eve heard, o'er Matilda's dis- 
traught 
Troubled fancy, forever suggesting the thought 
Of that right which man's heart, as its ultimate 

right 
To resist man's injustice, appears to invite, — 
The right of reprisals. 

An image uncertain, 
And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on the cur- 
tain 
Of the darkness around her. It came, and it 

went ; 
Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent : 
It pass'd and repass'd her ; it went and it came 
Forever returning ; forever the same : 
And forever more clearly defined ; till her eyes 
In that outline obscure could at last recognize 
The man to whose image, the more and the more 
That her heart, now arous'd from its calm sleep of 

yore. 
From her husband detach'd itself slowly, with 

pain, 
Her thoughts had return'd, and return'd to, 

again, 
As though by some secret indefinite law, — 
The vigilant Frenchman — Eugene de Luvois I 

vn. 

A light sound behind her. She trembled. By 

some 
Night-witchcraft, her vision a fact had become. 
On a sudden she felt, without turning to view, 
That a man was approaching behind her. She 

knew 



232 LUCILE. [Pakt 11 

By the fluttering pulse wliich slie could uot re- 
strain, 

And the quick-beating heart, that this man v/as 
Eugene. 

Her first instinct was flight ; but she felt her slight 
foot 

As heavy as though to the soil it had root. 

And the Duke's voice retain'd her, like fear in a 
dream. 



* Ah, lady ! in life there are meetings which seem 

* Like a fate. Dare I think like a sympathy too ? 

* Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you ? 

' Alone with my thoughts, on this star-lighted lav/n, 
' By an instinct resistless, I felt myself drawn 

* To revisit the memories left in the place 

* Where so lately this evening I look'd in your taoe. 

* And I find, — you, yourself— my own dream ! 

' Can there be 

* In this world one thought common to you and to 

me ? 
' If so, ... I, who deem'd but a moment ago 
'My heart uncompanion'd, save only by woe, 
' Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to be- 
lieve — 
' — Ah, but one word, but one from your lips t\? 
receive ' . . . 

Interrupting him quickly, she murmur'd, ' I sought/ 

* Here, a moment of solitude, silence, and thought, 

* Which I needed.' . . . 

* Lives solitude only for one '/ 

* Must its charm by my presence so soon be un- 

done ? 

* Ah, cannot two share it ? What needs it fo • 

this ? — 
The same thought in both hearts, — be it sorro? 
or bliss I 



Canto III.] lucile. 233 

' If my heart be the reflex of yours, lady — you, 
' Are you not yet alone, — even though we be two? ' 

For that,' . . . said Matilda, . . . ' needs were you 
should read 

* ^Vhat I have in my heart * . . 

' Think you, lady, indeed, 
' You are yet of that age when a women conceals 

* In her heart so completely whatever she feels 

* From the heart of the man whom it interests to 

know 

* And find out what that feeling may be ? Ah, not 

so, 

* Lady Alfred I Forgive me that in it I look, 

* But I read in your heart as I read in a book.' 

* Well, Duke ! and what read you within it ? un- 

less 
' It be, of a truth, a profound weariness, 

* And some sadness ? ' 

' No doubt. To all facts there are laws. 
'The effect has its cause, and I mount to the 
cause.' 



Matilda shrank back ; for she suddenly found 
That a finger was press'd on the yet bleedii 

wound 
She, herself, had but that day percei\^d in he? 

breast. 

* You are sad,* . . . said the Duke (and that fingei 

yet press'd 
With a cruel persistence the wound it madf 
bleed) — 

* You are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first need 

* Of a young and a beautiful woman is to be 

* Beloved and to love. You are sad : for yoi^ see 



234 LUClLE. [Part II 

* That you are not beloved, as you deem'd that you 

were : 

* You are sad : for that knowledge hath left you 

aware 

* That you ^ave not yet loved, though you thought 

tha^ you had. 

* Yes, ye? .... you are sad — because knowledge 

is sad I * 

He could not have read more profoundly her heart 
' What gave you,' she cried, with a terrified start, 
' Such strange power ? * . . . 

' To read in your thoughts ? ' he exclaim'd, 

* O lady, — a love, deep, profound — be it blamed 

* Or rejected, — a love, true, intense — such, at 

least, 

* As you, and you only, could wake in my breast I * 

< Hush, hush ! . . . I beseech you ... for pity I * 

she gasp'd, 
Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had 

clasp'd 
In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot. 

For pity ? ' . . . he echoed, . . . ' for pity I and 
what 

* Is the pity you owe him ? his pity for you ! 

* He, — the lord of a life, fresh as new-fallen dew ! 

* The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair, 

* And matchless I (whose happiness did he not 

swear 

* To cherish through life ?) he neglects her — for 

whom ? 
*For a fairer than she? No! the rose in the 
bloom 

* Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can 

prevail 

* To keep sleepless with song the aroused night* 

ingale, 



CANro HI] LUCILE. 235 

' Is not fairer ; for even in the pure world of flowera 
' Her symbol is not, and this poor world of ours 
' Has no second Matilda ! For whom ? Let that 
pass ! 

* 'T is not I, 't is not you, that can name her, alas ! 

* And / dare not question or judge her. But. 

why, 

* Why cherish the cause of your own misery ? 

* Wiiy think of one, lady, who thinks not of you ? 

* Why be bound by a chain which himself he breaks 

through ? 

*And why, since you have but to stretch forth 
your hand, 

*The love which you need and deserve to com- 
mand, 

* Why shrink ? Why repel it ? ' 

< O hush, sir I O hush ! ' 
Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were one 
blush. 

* Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my hfe I 
*Is not Alfred your friend? and am I not his 

wife?' 



* And have I not, lady,' he answer'd, ...♦ re- 

spected 

* His rights as a friend, till himself he neglected 

* Your rights as a wife ? Do you think 't is alone 

* For three days I have loved you ? My love may 

have grown 

* I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes, 
*In watching their tears, and in sounding youi 

sighs. 

* But, O lady 1 I loved you before I believed 
*That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever 

grieved. 

* Then, I deem'd you were happy — I deem'd j on 

possess'd 



236 LUCILE. [Part l\ 

* All the love you deserved, — and I hid in my 

breast 

* My own love, till this hour — when I could not 

but feel 
*Your grief gave me the right my own grief to 
reveal I 

* I knew, years ago, of the singular power 

* Which Lucile o'er your husband possess'd. Till 

the hour 

* In which he reveal'd it himself, did I, -^ say ! — 

* By a word, or a look, such a secret betray ? 

* No 1 no ! do me justice. I never have spoken 

* Of this poor heart of mine, till all ties he had 

broken 

* Which bound your heart to him. And now - 

now, that his love 
*For another hath left your own heart free to 

rove, 
' What is it, — even now, — that I kneel to implore 

you ? 

* Only this. Lady Alfred ! ... to let me adore you 
' Unblamed : to have confidence in me : to spend 

* On me not one thought, save to think me your 

friend. 

* Let me speak to you, — ah, let me speak to vou 

still ! 

* Hush to silence my words in your heart, if yoa 

will. 

* I ask no response : I ask only your leave 

* To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you 

grieve I ' 

XI. 

* Leave me, leave me ! ' . . . she gasp'd, with a voice 

thick and low 
From emotion. ' For pity's sake, Duke, let me go 1 
*I feel that to blame we should both of us be, 
' Did 1 linger.* 

• To blame ? yes, no doubt I ' . . . answer'd he, 



Canto UI.] LUCLLE. 2:37 

' If the love of your husband, in bringing you 

peace, 
' Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your re- 
lease 
' By the hand of another. One moment ! but one I 
' Who knows when, alas I I may see you alone 
' As to-night I have seen you ? or when we may 

meet 
' As to-night we have met ? when, entranced at 

your feet, 
' As in this blessed hour, I may ever avow 
' The thoughts which are pining for utterance 
now ?* 

' Duke ! Duke ! ' . . . she exclaim'd ... * for Heaven'? 

sake let me go 1 
' It is late. In the house they will miss me, I know. 

* We must not be seen here together. The night 
' Is advancing. I feel overwhelm'd with affright ! 
' It is time to return to my lord.' 

* To your lord ? ' 
He repeated, with lingering reproach on the word, 
' To your lord ? do you think he awaits you, in 
' truth ? 

* Is he anxiously missing your presence, forsooth ? 

' Keturn to your lord ! ... his restraint to renew "^ 

* And hinder the glances which are not for you ? 

* No, no ! ... at this moment his looks seek the 

face 

* Of another I another is there in your place ! 

* Another consoles him ! another receives 

* The soft speech which from silence your absence 

relieves ! * 



* Tou mistake, sir ! ' responded a voice, calm, 

severe. 
And sad, . . . ' You mistake, sii ! that other ia 

here.' 



238 LUCILE. [Part H 

Eugene and Matilda both started. 

' Luclle ! ' 
With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reel 
From the place where she stood, cried Matilda. 

' Ho, oh 1 

* Wliat ! eaves-dropping, madam ? ' v . . the Duke 

cried . . . ' And so 

* You were listening ? ' 

' Say, rather,' she said, * that I heard, 

* Without wishing to hear it, that infamous word, — 
' Heard — and therefore reply.' 

' Belle Comtesse,' said the Duke, 
With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke, 
Which betray'd that he felt himself baffled . . . ' you 
know 

* That your place is not Jiere* 

* Duke,' she answer'd him slow, 

* My place is wherever my duty is clear ; 

* And therefore my place, at this moment, is here. 
' O lady, this morning my place was beside 

* Your husband, because (as she said this she 

sigh'd) 

* I felt that from folly fast growing to crime — 

* The crime of self-blindness — Heaven yet spared 

me time 
' To save for the love of an innocent wife 

* All that such love deserved in the heart and the 

life 

* Of the man to whose heart and whose life you 

alone 

* Can with safety confide the pure trust of your 

own.' 

She turn'd to Matilda, and lightly laid on her 
Her soft, quiet hand . . . 

* 'T is, O lady, the honour 

* Which that man has confided to you, that, in spite 

* Of his friend, I now trust I may yet save to- 

niirht — 



CAVTO m.] LUCILE. 239 

* Save for both of you, lady ! for yours I revere ; 

* r>uc de Luvois, what say you ? — my place is not 

here ? ' 



And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught, 
Wound one arm round her waist unresisted, and 

sought 
Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot. 

The Duke stood confounded, and foUow'd them not. 

But not yet the house had they reach'd when Lu- 

cile 
Her tender and delicate burden could feel 
Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt 

down, 
Flung her arms round Matilda, and press'd to her 

own 
The poor bosom beating against her. 

The moon, 
Bright, breathless, and buoyant, and brunful of 

June, 
Floated up from the hill-hide, sloped over the vale, 
And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one 

pale. 
Minute, scintniescent, and tremulous star 
Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car. 
Thus to each of those women revealing the face 
Of the other. Each bore on her features the traca 
Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame 
The cheek of Matilda had flooded with flame. 
With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile 
Trembled visibly yet ; for she could not but feel 
That a heavenly hand was upon her that night, 
And it touch'd her pure brow to a heavenly light. 

• In the name of your husband, dear lady,* she 
feaid : 



240 LUCILE. [Part n. 

* In the name of your mother, take heart I Lift 

your head, 
' For those blushes are noble. Alas ! do not trust . 

* To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust, • 
*That the fault of the husband can cancel the 

wife's. 

* Take heart ! and take refuge and strength in your 

life's 
' Pure silence, — there, kneel, pray, and hope, 

weep, and wait ! ' 
' Saved, Lucile 1 ' sobb'd Matilda, * but saved to 

what fate ? 
' Tears, prayers, yes ! not hopes.* 

' Hush ! ' the sweet voice repUed. 
' Fool'd away by a fancy, again to your side 
' Must your husband return. Doubt not this. And 

return, 
' For the love you can give, with the love that yon 

yearn 
' To receive, lady. What was it chill'd you both now? 
' Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how 
' Love is nourish'd by love. Well ! henceforth you 

will prove 

* Your heart worthy of love, — since it knows how 

to love.' 



* What gives you such power over me, that I feel 
' Thus drawn to obey you ? What are you, Lucile ? 
SIgh'd Matilda, and lifted her eyes to the face 
Of Lucile. 

There pass'd suddenly through it the trace 
Of deep sadness ; and o'er that fair forehead came 

down 
A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. 
The pupil of sorrow, perchance ' . . . she replied, 
' Of sorrow ? ' Matilda exclaim'd . . . * O confide 
To my heart your affliction. In all you made 
known 



Canto IH.] lucile. 241 

* I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my 

own! ' 

* And I some consolation, no doubt ; for tlie tears 

* Of another have not llow'd for me many years.' 

It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand 
Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her ; and 
Thus together they enter'd the house. 



*T was the room 
Of Matilda. 

The languid and delicate gloom 
Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft 
From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. 
The casement oped mto the garden. The pale 
Cool moonlight streamed through it. One lone 

nightingale 
Sung aloof in the laurels. 

And here, side by side, 
Hand in hand, the two women sat down undescried, 
Save by guardian angels. 

As, when, sparkling yet 
From the rain, that, with drops that are jewels, 

leaves wet 
Tlie bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines 
To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines 
As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful 

speech, 
lake the showery whispers of flowers, each to each 
LInk'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, 
So united, yet diverse, the two women there 
Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping 

stem. 
In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. 
All that soul said to soul in that chamber, wh* 

knows ? 
All that heart gain'd from heart ? 
16 



242 LUCILE. [Paet n. 

Leave the lily, the rose, 
Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For 

who 
To the heart of the flow'ret can follow the dew ? 
A night full of stars ! O'er the silence, unseen, 
The footsteps of sentinel angels, between 
The dark land and deep sky were moving. You 

heard 
Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watch- 
word 
Which Virighten'd the stars as amongst them it fell 
Frcm enyih's hear*, -whiih i* eafce<L . . * All is well 1 

I) J. iB V^ { 



CAinx> 1V.1 LUCULE. 243 



CANTO IV. 



Sole fountain of song, and sole source of such lays 
As Time cannot quench in the dust of his days, 
Muse or Spifit, that inspirest, since Nature began 
The great epic of Life, the deep drama of Man 1 
What matter though skilless the lay be, and rude, 
Or melodiously moving the pure Doric mood, 
If one ray from thy presence, informing his song, 
Should descend on the singer, and lift him along ? 
From the prattle of pedants, the babble of fools. 
From the falsehoods and forms of conventional 

schools, 
First and last unappealable arbitress, thou ! 
Whose throne is no more on the crest-cloven brow 
Of Parnassus, where first out of Phocis was roll'd, 
From the Heliconiades singing ninefold. 
The song which the blind son of Mceon set free, 
But deep in the heart of mankind, unto thee, 
Mother Nature, that badest me sing what I feel, 
And canst feel what I sing, unto thee I appeal 1 
For the Poets pour wine ; and, when 't is new, all 

decry it, 
But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. 
And Polonius, who praises no wine that 's not 

Massic, 
Complains of my verse, that my verse is not clas- 
sic : 
And the erudite ladies who take, now and then, 
Tea and toast, with assthetics, precisely at Ten, 
Have avouch'd that my song is not earnest because 
Model schools, lodging-houses for paupers, poor 
laws. 



244 LUCILE. [Part II 

The progress of woman, the great working classes; 
All the age is eoncern'd in, unnoticed it passes. 
And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and not badly, 
My earlier verses, sighs ' Commonplace sadly ! * 
Tell them, tell them, my song is as old as 't is new, 
And aver that 't is earnest because it is true. 
Strip from Fashion the garment she wears : what 

remains 
But the old human heart, with its joys and ita 

pains ? 
The same drama that drew to its hopes and Its feara 
From the eyes of our fathers both laughter and 

tears. 
*T was conceived in the .\eart of the first man on 

earth, 
By the rivers of Eden when, lone from his birth, 
Through the bowers of Paradise wandering forlorn, 
He pined for the face of an Eve yet unborn : 
It was acted in Egypt, when Pharaoh was king ; 
It was spoken in Attic, and sun^ to the string 
Of the cithern in Greece ; and in Eome, word for 

word, 
It was utter'd by Horace in accents long heard. 
Love and grief, strength and weakness, regret and 

desire, 
These have breath'd in all ages from every Ijtc, 
The chant of man's heart, with its ceaseless eo- 

deavour ; 
As old as the song which the sea sings forever. 
Other men, other mannt rs ! anon from the North, 
With the Hun and the Vandal, unchanged it roll' J 

forth. 
New in language alone, it was hymn'd to the harp 
Harold bore by the Baltic ; its music fell sharp 
With the sword of the Guiscard ; it made Rudel's 

weeping 
Melodious for Melisanth ; still is it keeping 
In play the perpetual pulses of passion 
In the heart of mankind : and whatever the fashion 



Cajtw IV.] LUCILE. 24 D 

Of the garments we wear, 't is the same life they 

cover. 
WTien the Greek actor, acting Electra, wept over 
The urn of Orestes, the theatre rose 
And wept with him. What was there in such fio 

tive woes 
To thrill a whole theatre ? Ah, 't is his son 
That lies dead in the urn he is weeping upon 1 
'T is no fabled Electra that hangs o'er that urn, 
'T is a father that weeps his own child. 

Men discern 
rhe man through the mask ; the heart moved by 

the heart 
Owns the 'pathos of life in the pathos of art. 
And the Keart is the sole grand republic, in which 
All that 's human is equal, the poor and the rich ; 
The sole indestructible state time can touch 
With no change : before Rome, before Carthage, 

't was such 
As it will be when London and Paris are gone. 
Save, indeed, that its citizens (time flowing on) 
Thro' the errors and follies of ages improve 
The final dominion of absolute love. 

If this world be, indeed, as 't was said, but a stage, 
The dress only is changed 'twixt the acts of an age. 
From the dark tiring-chamber behind straight re- 
issue 
With new masks the old mummers ; the very same 

tissue 
Of passionate antics that move through the plaj. 
With new parts to fulfil and new phrases to say. 
The plot grows more complex, more actors appear, 
And the moral perchance glimpses out, there and 

here. 
More clearly, approaching the ultimate fall 
Of the curtain that yet hangs unseen. That is alL 

As for you, Polonius, you vex me but slightly ', 



M6 LUCILE. [Part U 

But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly 
In despite of their languishing looks, on my word, 
That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. 
Yes 1 the silliest woman that smiles on a bard 
Better far than Longinus himself can reward 
The appeal to her feeHngs of which she approves ; 
And the critics I most care to please are the Lovea. 

Live the gentle romance I live the page tora 

asunder 
By a light rosy finger with innocent wonder I 
Live the tale which Neaera turns over and over 
In the rose-colour'd room where she dreams of a 

lover ! 
Live the old melodrama of murder and love 
Which Jane sobs to see from the box up above ! 
Hang it I women, I know, are vain, frivolous, falsf. 
I know they care more for a riband, a waltz, 
A box at the opera, a new moire antique^ 
Than for science, philosophy, ethics, or Greek. 
I know they admire, too, a thousand times more 
Gardoni, or Mario, or even that bore 
Colonel * * *, whom the deuce only kncvrs what 

they say to. 
Than Shakespeare, or Goethe, or Newton, or Pla.to. 
I know they are silly, deceitful, and woroe : 
Inconceivably spiteful, self-will'd, and perverse ; 
I know they have weak hearts Lad obstinate 

wills ; 
I know that their logic is not Mr. Mill's ; 
I know that their conscience, thajjjk Heaven, is not 

mine; 
That they cant about genius, but cannot divine 
Its existence, till all the wjrld points with the 

hand ; 
That they wear their creed (even the best) second- 
hand; 
That their love \ b\^ a plague which in them doth 

infuse 



Canto IV J lucile. 247 

Its contagion from clothes or coin — no matter 

whose. 
And I know that the thing they most care for . . , 

but no ! 
I '11 not aay it out loud. Never mind what I know. 
But despite of all this, and despite of much more, 
I know I would rather, a hundred times o'er, 
O Neaera, you exquisite infant, whose duty 
Is but to be fair, and whose soul is your beauty, 
Have one smile from your eyes, or one kiss from 

your lips, 
One pressure vouchsafed from your fair finger- 
tips. 
Than to wear all the laurels that ever with praise 
Impaled human brows — even Dante's brown bays I 

Alas, friend ! what boots it, a stone at his head 
And a brass on his breast, — when d man is once 

dead ? 
Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon 

were then 
Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models 

for men. 
The reformer's ? — a creed by posterity learnt 
A century after its author is burnt 1 
The poet's ? — a laurel that hides the bald brow 
It hath blighted 1 The painter's ? — ask Raphael 

now 
WhL:;h Madonna *s authentic I The statesman's ? — 

a name 
For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim I 
The soldier's ? — three lines on the cold Abbey 

pavement I 
Were this all the life of the wise and the brave 

meant. 
All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were 
Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, 
Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade 
And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead, 



248 LUCILE. [Paui IL 

Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long 

thought, 
A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for 

naught 
Save the name of John IVIilton ! For all men, 

indeed, 
Who in some choice edition may graciously read, 
With fair illustration, and erudite note, 
The song which the poet in bitterness wrote. 
Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this — 
The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss 
The grief of the man : Tasso's song — not his 

madness ! 
Dante's dreams — not his waking to exile and 

sadness ! 
Milton's music — but not MUton's blindness 1 . . - 

Yet rise, 
My ]\Iilton, and answer, with those noble eyes 
Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth I 
Say — the life, in the living it, savours of worth : 
That the deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim : 
That the fact has a value apart from the fame : 
That a deeper delight, in the mere labour, pays 
Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days : 
And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare's writ^ 

ings were lost, 
And his genius, though never a trace of it cross'd 
Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt 
In the isle with IMiranda, with Hamlet have felt 
All that Hamlet hath utter'd, and haply where, 

pure 
On its death-bed, wrong'd Love lay, have moau'd 

with the Moor I 



When Lord Alfred that night to the salon re- 

turn'd 
He found it deserted. The lamp dimly burn'd 
As though half out of humour to find itself there 



Cakto IV.] LUCILE. 249 

Forced to light for no purpose a room that waa 

bare. 
STe sat down bj the window alone. Never yet 
Did the heavens a lovelier evening beget 
Since Latona's bright childbed that bore the new 

moon ! 
The dark world lay still, in a sort of sweet swoon, 
Wide open to heaven ; and the stars on the stream 
Were trembling like eyes that ai'e loved on the 

dream 
Of a lover ; and aU things were glad and at rest 
Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled breast. 
He endeavour'd to think — an unwonted employ- 
ment. 
Which appear'd to afford him no sort of enjoy- 
ment. 



* Withdraw into yourself But, if peace you seek 

there for, 
*Your reception, beforehand, be sure to prepare 

for,' 
Wrote the tutor of Nero ; who wrote, be it said, 
Better far than he acted — but peace to the dead 1 
He bled for his pupil : what more could he do ? 
But Lord Alfred, when into himself he withdrew, 
Found all there in disorder. For more than an 

hour 
He sat with his head droop'd like some stubborn 

flower 
Beaten down by the rush of the rain — with such 

force 
Did the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him the 

course 
Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and dim, 
From the cloud that had darken'd the evening for 

him. 
At one moment he rose — rose and opcn'd the 

door, 



250 1.UCILE. [Part H 

And wistfully look'd down the dark corridor 
Toward the room of Matilda. Anon, with the 

sigh 
Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly 
Back again to his place in a sort of submission 
To doubt, and return'd to his former position — 
That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of the 

face. 
And the eye vaguely fix'd on impalpable space. 
The dream, which till then had been lulling his 

Hfe, 
As once Circe the winds, had seal'd thought ; an(2 

his wife 
And his home for a time he had quite, like Ulysses, 
Forgotten ; but now o'er the troubled abysses 
Of the spirit within him, aeolian, forth leapt 
To their freedom new-found, and resistlessly swept 
^Jl his heart into tumult, the thoughts which had 

been 
Iiong pent up in their mystic recesses unseen. 



How long he thus sat there, himself he knew not, 
Till he started, as though he were suddenly shot, 
To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt, 
V/"hich was making some noise in the passage 

without. 
A sound English voice, with a round English ac- 
cent, 
Which the scared German echoes resentfully back 

sent ; 
The complaint of a much disappointed cab-driver 
Mingled with it, demanding some ultimate stiver, 
Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a boot 
V/hich reveal'd by its sound no diminutive foot : 
And the door was flung suddenly open, and on 
The threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor John 
Was seized in that sort of affectionate rage or 
Frenzy of hugs which some stout Ursa Major 



Canto IV.] lucile. 251 

On some lean Ursa IMinor would doubtless bestow 
With a warmth for which only starvation and 

snow 
Could render one grateful. As soon as he could, 
Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be food 
Any more for those somewhat voracious embraces. 
Then the two men sat down and scann'd each 

other's faces ; 
And Alfred could see that his cousin was taken 
With unwonted emotion. The hand that had 

shaken 
His own trembled somewhat. In truth he descried, 
At a glance, something wrong. 

V. 

* What *s the matter ? ' he cried. 
' What have you to tell me ? * 

Cousin John. 

What 1 have you not heard " 
Lord Alfbed. 
Beard what ? 

Cousin John. 

This sad business — 
Lord Alfred. 

I ? no, not a word 
Cousin 'John. 
You received my last letter ? 

Lord Alfred. 

I think so. If not. 
What then ? 

Cousin John. 

You have acted upon it ? 



252 LUCILE. (Part U 

Lord Alfred. 

On what ? 

Cousin Johk. 

The advice that I gave you — 

Lord Alfred. 

Advice ? — let me s*« ' 
You always are giving advice, Jack, to me. 
About Parliament was it ? 

Cousin John. 

Hang Parliament i no, 
The Bank, the Bank, Alfred I 

Lord Alfred. 

What Bank ? 

Cousin John. 

Heavens 1 1 know 
You are careless ^ — but surely you have not for- 
gotten, — 
Or neglected ... I warn'd you the whole thing 

was rotten. 
You have di^awn those deposits at least ? 

Lord Alfred. 

No. I means 
To have written to-day , but the note shall be sent 
To-mon'ow, however. 

CouanrN John. 

To-morrow ? too late ! 
Too late ! oh, what devil bewitch'd you to wait ? 

Lord Alfred. *; 

Mercy save us ! you don't mean to say . . . 



Canto IV ] lucile. 2»'»3 

Cousin John. 

Yc3, I do. 
Lord Alfeed. 

What ! Sir Ridley ? . . . 

Cousin John. 
Smash'd, broken, blown up, bolted too ! 
Lord Alfred. 
But his own niece ? ... In Heaven's name, Jack . . . 

Cousin John. 

Oh, I told you 
The old hypocritical scoundrel would . . . 

Lord Alfred. 

Holdl you 
Surely can't mean we are ruin'd ? 

Cousin John. 

Sit down I 
A fortnight ago a report about town 
Made me most apprehensive. Alas, and alas ! 
I at once wi'ote and warn'd you. Well, now let 

that pass. 
A run on the Bank about five days ago 
Confirm'd my forebodings too terribly, though. 
I drove down to the City at once : found the door 
Of the Bank closed : the Bank had stopp'd pay- 
ment at four. 
Next morning the failure was known to be fraud : 
Warrants out for MacNab ; but MacNab waa 

abroad : 
Gone — we cannot tell where. I endeavor'd to 

get 
Information : have learn'd nothing certain as yet -~ 
Not even ^le way that old Ridley was gone : 



254 ILUCILE. [Pari II 

Or with those securities what he had done : 

Or whether they had been already call'd out : 

If they are not, their fate is, I fear, past a doubt. 

Twenty families ruin'd, they say : what was left, — 

Unable to find any clew to the cleft 

The old fox ran to earth in, — but join you as fast 

As I could, my dear Alfred ? * 



He stopp'd here, aghast 
At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face 
Had grown Uvid ; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space. 

* Courage, courage I ' . . . said John, . . . ' bear the 

blow like a man I ' 
And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. 

There ran 
Through that hand a quick tremor. * I bear it,' he 

said, 

* But Matilda ? the blow is to her 1 ' And his head 
Seem'd forced down as he said it. 

Cousin John. 

Matilda ? Pooh, pooh 1 
I half think I know the girl better than you. 
She has courage enough — and to spare. She 

cares less 
Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress. 

Lord Alfred. 

The fault has been mine. 

Cousin John. 

Be it yours to repair it 
If you did not avert, you may help her to bear it. 

* These events, it is needless to say, Mr. Morse, 
Took place when Bad News as yet travell'd by horse; 
Ere the world, like a cockchafer, bazz'd on a wire, 
Or Time was calcined by electrical fire ; 
Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic, 
Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic 



Canto IV. ] LUCXLE. 25t> 

LoKD Alfred. 
I might have averted. 

Cousin John. 

Perhaps so. But now 
There is clearly no use in considering how, 
Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is 

here. 
Broken shins are not mended by crying — that fl 

clear 1 
One has but to rub them, and get up again. 
And push on — and not think too much of the 

pain. 
And at least it is much that you see that to her 
You owe too much to think of yourself. You must 

stir 
And arouse yourself, Alfred, fbr her sake. Who 

knows ? 
Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I 

suppose 
We shall make him disgorge all he can, at the least. 

O Jack, I have been a brute idiot 1 a beast ! 

* A fool I I have sinn'd, and to her I have sinn'd I 

* I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind ! 

* And now, in a flash, I see all things ! ' 

As tho' 
To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low 
On his hand ; and the great tears in silence roll'd 

on. 
And fell momently, heavily, one after one. 
John felt no desire to find instant relief 
For the trouble he witness'd. 

He guess'd, in the grief 
Of his cousin, the broken and heart-felt admission 
Of some error demanding a heart-felt contrition ; 
Some oblivion perchance which could plead lesa 

excuse 



2&6 LUCILE. [PAflT II 

To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use 

Of the conscience God gave him, than simply and 

merely 
The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly. 
So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down 
The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own 
Cordial heart for Matilda. 

Thus, silently lost 
In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and recross'd 
The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung 
O'er the table ; his fingers entwisted among 
The rich curls they were knotting and dragging : 

and there, 
TTiat sound of all sounds the most painful to hear, 
The sobs of a man ! Yet so far in his own 
Kindly thoughts was he plunged, he already had 

grown 
Unconscious of Alfred. 

And so, for a space 
There was silence between them. 



At last, with sad face 
He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awliile 
A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, 
Approach'd him, — stood o'er him, — and suddenly 

laid 
One hand on his shoulder — 

' "V^Tiere is she ? * he said. 
Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears. 
And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears 
In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, 
Unable to answer. 

' Where is she ? * repeated 
His cousin. 

He motion'd his hand to the door ; 
' There, I think,' he replied. Cousin John said no 

more, 
And appear 'd to relapse to his own cogitations, 



Canto VI.] lucile. 25 J 

Of wliich not a gesture vouchsafed indications. 
So again there was silence. 

A timepiece at last 
Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. 

Roused by them, he cast 
A half look to the dial ; then quietly threw 
His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew 
The hands down from his face. 

' It is time she should know 
* What has happen'd,' he said, ... 'let us go to her 

now.' 
Alfred started at once to his feet. 

Drawn and wan 
"3 hough his face, he look'd more than his wont was 

— a man. 
Strong, for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fill'd 

through 
With a manly resolve. 

If that axiom be true 
Of the ' Sum quia cogito,' I must opine 
That ' id sum quod cogito * : — that which, in fine, 

I thinks 

thought 
And feeling, the man is himself. 

He had fought 
With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow 
The survivor of much which that strife had laid low. 
At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, 
Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life 
Which, though yet unfulfill'd, seem'd till then, in 

that name, 
To bo his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream of 

fame 
And of power feU shatter'd before him ; and only 
There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely 
In all save the love he could give her. The lord 
Of that heart he arose. Blush not. Muse, to record 
That his first thought, and last, at that moment waa 

not 

17 



258 LUCILB. [Part H 

Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot, 
But the love that was left to it ; not of the pelf 
He had cared for, yet squander'd ; and not of him- 
self, 
But of her ; as he murmur'd, 

' One moment, dear Jack 1 

* We have grown up from boyhood together. Oul 

track 

* Has been through the same meadows in child- 

hood : in youth 

* Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. 

In truth, 

* There is none that can know me as you do ; and 

none • 

* To whom I more wish to believe myself known. 

* Speak the truth ; you are not wont to mince it, I 

know. 
' Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now. 
' In despite of a wanton behaviour, in spite 

* Of vanity, folly, and pride. Jack, which might 

* Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and 

true 

* As your own, I have never turn'd round and 

miss'd YOU 

* From my side in one hour of affliction or doubt 

* By my own blind and heedless self-will brought 

about. 

* Tell me ti-uth. Do I owe this alone to the sake 
' Of those old recollections of boyhood that make 
*In your heart yet some clinging and crying ap- 
peal 

* From a judgment more harsh, which I cannot but 

feel 
*]Vlight have sentenced our friendship to death 
long ago ? 

* Ot is it ... (I would I could deem it were so !) 

* That, not all overlaid by a listless exterior, 

* Your heart has divined in me something superior 
^ T« that which I seom ; from my innermost nature 



a\in\» IV.J LUCILE. 259 

' Not wholly expelPd ly the worLVs usuipature ? 

♦ Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire 

' For truth ? Some one spark of the soul's native 

fire 
' Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust 
' "^Yhich life hath heap'd o'er it '? Some one fact to 

trust 
' And to hope in ? Or by you alone am I deem*d 
' The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd 
' To my own self ? ' 

CousiM John. 

No, Alfred ! you will, I believe, 
Be true, at the last, to what now makes you 

grieve 
For having behed your true nature so long. 
Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong 1 

* Do you think,' he resumed ... * what I feel while 

I speak 
' Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak 
' As these weak tears would seem to betoken it ? ' 



Cousm John. 



Lord Alfked. 



Nol 



Thank you, cousin I your hand then. And now I 

will go 
Alone, Jack. Trust to me. 

vm. 
Cousin John. 

I do. But 't is late. 

If she sleeps, you'll not wake her ? 



260 LUCILE. [Fart II 



Lord Alfred. 

No, no ! It will wait 
(Poor infant !) too surely, this mission of sorrow ; 
If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of to 
morrow. 

He open'd the door, and pass'd out. 

Cousin John 
Watch'd him, wistful, and left him to seek her 
alone. 



His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her 

door. 
He could hear no reply from within. Yet once 

more 
He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he 

tried : 
The door open'd : he enter'd the room undescried. 



No brighter than is that dim circlet of light 
Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the 

night, 
The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed 
Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy 

bed 
Matilda was kneeling ; so wrapt in deep prayer 
That she knew not her husband stood watching her 

there. 
With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a 

faint 
And unearthly effulgence, which seem'd to acquaint 
The whole place with a sense of deep peace made 

secure 
By the presence of something angelic and pure. 
And not purer some angel Grief carveu o'er thfl 

tomb 



Cajitu IV.] LUCILE. 261 

Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd lu that 
gloom. 

She had put off her dress ; and she look'd to hia 
eyes 

Like a young soul escaped from its earthly dis- 
guise : 

Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were barej 

And over them rippled her soft golden hair ; 

Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced 

Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. 

As the light that, from water reflected, forever 
Trembles up thro' the tremulous reeds of a river, 
So the beam of her beauty went trembling in 

him. 
Thro' the thoughts it suffused with a sense sofl and 

dim, 
Keproducing itself in the broken and bright 
Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. 

That sight 
Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce 

what he did 
To her side through the chamber he silently slid, 
And knelt down beside her — and pray'd at her 

side. 



Upstarting, she then for the first time descried 
That her husband was near her ; suffused with th© 

blush 
Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush 
Where the tears sparkled yet. 

As a young fawn uncouches. 
Shy with fear, from the fern where some hunter 

approaches, 
She shrank back ; he caught her, and circling hia 

arm 
Round her waist, on her brow press'd one ki>* 

long and warm. 



262 LUCILE. [Part U. 

Then her fear changed in impulse •, and hiding her 
face 

On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging em- 
brace 

With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as 
though 

She fear'd, if their clasp were relax'd, he would 
go: 

Her smooth naked shoulders, uncared for, con- 
vulsed 

By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed 

In its pressure on his, as the efibrt within it 

Lived and died with each tender tumultuous mln* 
ute. 

* O Alfred, O Alfred ! forgive me,' she cried — 

* Forgive me ! ' 

' Forgive you, my poor child ! * he sigh'd 

* But I never have blamed you for aught that I 

know, 

* And I have not one thought that reproaches you 

now.' 
From her arms he unwound himself gently. And 

so 
He forced her down softly beside him. Below 
The canopy shading their couch, they sat down. 
And, he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, 

* When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at 

length 
^ That he is but a child in the midst of his strength, 

* But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own 

* The weakness which thus to himself hath been 

shown ? 

* From whom seek the strength which his need of 

is sore, 

* Altho' in his pride he might perish, before 

* He could plead for the one, or the other avow 

* 'Mid his intimate friends ? Wife of mine, tell me 

now, 

* Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour, 



CAMTO IV.] LUCILE. 263 

* The sole friend that can have the right or tho 

power 

* To be at his side, is the woman that shares 

* His fate, if he falter ; the woman that bears 

* The name dear for her sake, and hallows the life 

* She has mingled her own with, — in short, that 

man's wife ? ' 

* Yes,' murmur'd Matilda, • O yes ! ' 

' Then,' he cried, 

* This chamber in which we two sit, side by side, 
(And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to 

press her,) 

* Is now a confessional — you^ my confessor!* 

* I V * she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head. 

* Yes ! but first answer one other question,' he said : 

* When a woman once feels that she is not alone ; 

* That the heart of another is warm'd by her own ; 

* That another feels with her whatever she feel, 
' And halves her existence in woe or in weal ; 

* That a man for her sake will, so long as he lives, 

* Live to put forth his strength which the thought 

of her gives ; 

* Live to shield her from want, and to share with 

her sorrow ; 

* Live to solace the day, and provide for the mor- 

row ; 

* Will that woman feel less than another, O say, 

* The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away ? 

* Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come, 
*That they brighten the heart, tho' they darken 

the home '? ' 
She turn'd, like a soft rainy heaven, on him 
Eyes that smiled thro' fresh tears, trustful, tender, 

and dim. 

* That woman,' she murmur'd, * indeed were thrice 

blest r 
*TheD courage, true wife of my heart!* to his 

breast 
As he Tolded and gather'd her closely, he cried. 



264 LUCILE. [Part H. 

' For the ref?!gf , to-night in these arms open'd wide, 
To your heart, can be never closed to it again, 

* And this room is for both an asylum ! For when 

* I pass'd thro' that door, at the door I left there 
' A calamity, sudden, and heavy to bear. 

* One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, 

* We must face it henceforth ; but it enters not 

here. 

* For that door shuts it out, and admits here alone 

* A heart which calamity leaves all your own ! ' 
She started . . . ' Calamity, Alfred ! to you ? ' 

* To both, my poor child, but 't will bring with it too 

* The courage, I trust, to subdue it.' 

* O speak ! 

* Speak 1 * she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and 

weak. 

* O yet for a moment,' he said, ' hear me on 1 

* Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun, 

* Like those children of sunshine, the bright sum- 

mer flies, 

* That sport in the sunbeam, and play thro' the 

skies 

* While the skies smile, and heed not each other : 

at last, 

* When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky over- 

cast, 

* Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings ? 

* So indeed the morn found us, — poor frivoloua 

things I 

* Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set, 

* And the night brings its darkness around us. Oh, 

yet, 

* Have we weather'd no storm thro' those twelve 

cloudless hours ? 

* Yes ; you, too, have wept ! 

' While the world was yet ours, 

* While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd 

to us, 

* And its mjiiad voices cf joy seem'd to woo us, 



Canto IV.] lucile. 265 

* We stray'd from each other, too far, it may be, 

* Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see 

*How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how 
great 

* Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my 

fatel 
' But, Matilda, an angel was near us, meanwhile, 

* Watching o'er us, to warn, and to rescue ! 

' That smile 

* Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you 

eyed 
*With resentment, an angel's they were at your 

side 
' And at mine ; nor perchance is the day all so far, 

* When we both in our prayers, when most heart- 

felt they are, 
^ May murmur the name of that woman now gone 

* From our sight evermore. 

' Here, this evening, alone, 
' I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart 
'' Unto yours, — from this clasp be it never to part I 
' Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone, 
' But a prize richer far than that fortune has won 
' It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize, 

* 'T is the heart of my wife ! ' With suffused happy 

eyes 
She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide 

apart. 
And, tenderly closing them round him, his heart 
Clasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom ; and 

there 
Droop'd her head on his shoulder ; and sobb'd. 

Not despair, 
Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss, 
Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she was 
Of all save the sense of her own love ! Anon, 
However, his words rush'd back to her. ' All gone, 
The fortune you brought me ! ' 

And eyes that were dim 



266 LUCILE. [Part n. 

With soft tears she upraised : but those tears were 
for Mm. 

* Gone ! my husband ? she said, ' tell me all I see I 

I need, 

* To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed, 

* Fuller sense of affliction.' 

* Poor innocent child 
He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled. 

* Your uncle has fail'd, and we know nothing more. 

* There still rest my own smaller means, as before, 

* And my heart, and my brain, and my right hand 

for you ; 
*And with these, my Matilda, what may I not 
do? 

* You know not, I knew not myself till this hour, 
♦Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full 

power/ 

* And I too,' she murmur'd, ' I too am no more 

* The mere infant at heart you have known me 

before. 

* I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much 

in life. 

* O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, 

* The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel 1 

* For I — love you, my husband ! ' 

As though to conceal 
Less from him, than herself, what that motion ex- 

press'd, 
She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on hia 

breast. 

* O lovely as woman, beloved as wife ! 

* Evening star of my heart, light forever my life I 

* If from eyes fix'd too long on this base earth thus 

far 

* You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian 

star, 

* Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven, 

* Ther3 I see you, and know you, and bless the light 

given 



Canto iV.] lucile. 267 

* To lead me to life's late achievement ; my own, 

* My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one 1 * 



How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight, 
That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue baling 

night ! 
How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth, 
As she clung to his side, full of trust and ot truth I 
How lovely to him^ as he tenderly press'd 
Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd 
The glittering tresses which, now shaken loose, 
Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them ! 



O Muse, 
Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart 
*Twixt these two silent souls 1 There 's a joy be- 
yond art, 
And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast. 



Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at 

least ! 
No music, save such as the nightingales sung, 
Breath'd their bridals abroad ; and no cresset, up- 
hung. 
Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was 

given 
From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple 

heaven. 
He open'd the casement : he led her with him, 
Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the 

dim 
Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They 

heard 
Aloof the invisible, rapturous bird. 
With her wild note bewildering the woodlands? 

they saw 



268 LUCILE. [Part IL 

Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw 

His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with 
cheer 

From the throat of the vale ; o'er the dark-sapphire 
sphere 

The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep. 

Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the 
sheep 

Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace ; from unknown 

Hollow glooms freshen'd odours around them wera 
blown 

Intermittingly ; then the moon dropp'd from their 
sight, 

Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light 

Which no longer they needed to read on the face 

Of each other life's last revelation. 

The place 

Slept sumptuous round them; and Nature, that 
never 

Sleeps, but waking reposes, with patient endeav- 
our 

Continued about them, unheeded, unseen. 

Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green 

Smumer silence, preparing new buds for new blos- 
soms. 

And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms 

Of the unconscious woodlands ; and Time, that halts 
not 

His forces, how lovely soever the spot 

Where their march lies — the wary, gray strategist, 
Time, 

With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd — Grief and 
Crime, 

Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded; ma- 
turing. 

For his great war with man, new surprises ; so- 
curing 

All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe 

To his last narrow refuge — the grave. 



Oa»to IV. J LUCILE. 269 



Sweetly though 
Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and 

sweetly 
Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, com- 
pletely 
Confiding in that yet untrodden existence 
Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resist- 
ance 
And struggle ; to-night, Love his hallow'd device 
Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice. 



270 LUCILB. fPARl IL 



CANTO V. 



When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours 
Forlorn in her own vacant chamber. Those powers 
Of action and thought, the day's sharp exigence 
Had maintain'd for a while at a pitch so intense, 
Now, when solitude found her, within and without, 
Released from the part she had fully play'd out, 
Deserted her wholly. Alone, in the gloom, 
<Mid the signs of departure, that gave to that room 
A dull sense of strangeness, — about to turn back 
To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track, - 
She felt her heart falter within her. She sat 
Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at 
The insignia of royalty worn for a night ; 
Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, 
And the effort of passionate feigning ; who thinks 
Of her own meagre, rush-lighted chamber, and 

shrinks 
From the chill of the change that awaits her. 

II. 

From theso 
Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, 
Unable to sleep, she descended the stair 
That led from her room to the garden. 

The air, 
With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at 

hand, 
Straogely smote on her feverish forehead. The 

land 
li&y in darkness and change, ^ike a world in its 
grave ■. 



Canto V.] luclle. 271 

No sound, save the voice of the long river wave, 
And the crickets that sing all the night 1 

She stood still, 
Vaguely watching the thin cloud that curl'd on the 

hill. 
Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir. 
And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. 
Ah, pale woman 1 what, with that heart-broken 

look. 
Didst thou read then in Nature's weird heart-break- 
ing book ? 
Have the wild rains of heaven a father ? and 

who 
Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew ? 
Orion, Arcturus, who pilots them both ? 
What leads forth in his season the bright Maz« 

roth? 
Hath the darkness a dwelling, — save there^ r' 

those eyes? 
And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in th« 

skies ? 
Ay, question, and listen ! What answer ? 

The sound 
Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled 

bound. 
And the crickets that sing all the night. 

There are hours 
Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers, 
Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all 
That to this race of worms, — stinging creaturef^ 

that crawl, 
Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their owa 

stings, — 
Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. 
When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath 

pass'd 
Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last ; 
When she traverses nature and space, till she 

stands 



272 LUCILE. [Part II 

In the Chamber of Fate ; where, through tremulous 

hands, 
Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff un- 

curl'd, 
And those tlu*ee blind old women sit spinning the 

world. 



The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green 

star 

"Was slipping from sight in the pale void afar ; 

The spirits of change, and of awe, with faint breath, 

Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath. 

The spirits of awe and of change were around. 

And about, and upon her. 

A dull muffled sound, 

And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise, 

And she felt herself fix'd by the hot, hollow eyes 

Of the Frenchman before her : those eyes seem'd 
to burn. 

And scorch out the darkness between them, and 
turn 

Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the 
shade 

Of a creature by fancy from solitude made. 

And sent forth by the darkness to scare and op- 
press 

Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness. 

IV. 

* At last, then at last, and alone, — I and tnou, 
' Lucile de Nevers, have we met ? 

' Hush 1 I know 
*Not for me was the tryst. Never mind I it is 
mine ; 

* And whatever led hither those proud steps of 

thine, 
' They remove not, until we have spoken*. My 
hour 



CAx*?to v.] lucile. 273 

* Is come ; aud It holds thee and me in its power, 

' As the darkness holds both the horizons. 'T ia 

well I 
' Tlie timidest maiden that e'er to the spell 

* Of her first lover's vows listen'd, hush'd with de- 

light, 
When soft stars were brightly uphanging the 

night, 
' Never listen'd, I swear, more unquestioningly, 
Than thy fate hath compell'd thee to listen to 

me 1' 
Vo the sound of his voice, as though out of a 

dream, 
5he appear'd with a start to awaken. 

The stream, 
IrVhen he ceased, took the night with its moaning 

Like the voices of spirits departing in pain. 
' Continue,' she answer'd, ' I listen to hear.' 
For a moment he did not reply. 

Through the drear 
And dim light between them, she saw that his face 
Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace, 
With his arms folded close, and the low, restless 

stride 
Of a panther, in circles around her, first wide, 
Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last 
He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast. 

* Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face ? 

* Is the sight so repugnant ? ha, well I Canst thou 

trace 

* One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll, 

' With thine own name scrawl'd thro' it, defacing a 

soul ? ' 
Li his face there was something so wrathful and 

wild. 
That she could not but shudder. 

He saw it, and smiled, 
And then turn'd him from her, renewing again 
IS 



274 LUCtLE. [I'AKT IL 

Thai short, restless stride ; as though searching in 

vain 
For the point of some purpose within him. 

' Lucile, 

* You shudder to look in my face : do you feel 

* No reproach when you look in your own heart ? * 

'No, Duke, 

* In my conscience I do not deserve your rebuke : 

* Not yours 1 * she replied. 

* No,' he mutter'd again, 

* Gentle justice ! you first bid Life hope' not, and 

then 

* To Despair you say " Act not ! " * 

V. 

He watch'd her awhile 
With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. 
They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, 
Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophe- 
cies 
Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long 

set, 
And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet 
With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly 

loom'd 
Kound about her. She spoke not. At length he 
resumed. 

* Wretched creatures we are ! I and thou — one 

and all I 

* Only able to injure each other, and fall 

Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we pre- 
pare 
For the souls that we boast of! weak insects we 

are! 
O heaven ! and what has become of them ? all 
Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall : 
That glorious faith in inherited things : 
lliat sense in tlie soul of the length of her 
wings I 



CAsmj V.J LUCILE. 275 

* Grone ! all gone I and the wail of the night- wind 

sounds human, 

* Bewailing those once nightly visitants ! Woman, 

* Woman, what hast thou done with my youth ? 

Give again, 

* Give me back the young heart that I gave thee . . . 

in vain ! ' 

* Duke ! ' she falter'd. 

' Yes, yes ! ' he went on, * I was not 

* Always thus ! what I once was I have not forgot.* 



As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, thera 

stirr'd 
Through his voice an emotion that swept every 

word 
Into one angry wail ; as, with feverish change. 
He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. 
' I remember the time 1 — for it haunts me even 

yet 

* Like a ghost, through the Hades of lifelong re- 

gret— 
' I remember the time when the spirits of June 
' Led the faint-footed dance of the flowers to the 

tune 

* That was sung by the sons of the morning of old, 

' When the sun first came forth from his chambers 
of gold. 

* Tlien I saw round the rosy horizon of things 

* The omnipotent Hours, In Olympian rings, 

* Charioteering in glory ; the world seem'd It) glow 

* Where they circled and swept, each a crown on 

his brow 1 

* Then the gods in the twilight descended, and then 

* The yet homely Immortals abided with men, 

* Then the oak flow'd with heaven-colour'd honey, 

and the lymph 

* Was the dwelling divine of a white-footed njTnph : 

* Then all men were bold, and aU women were fairj 



«76 LUCILE. [Part tt 

* And Love, — a light impulse alive on the air, 

* Flitted, folded for aye in his own happy dream, 

* Flitted here, flitted there, like a bee on a beam, 

* Wherever new flow'rets, by lawn or by dell, 

* Held on tiptoe for him their divine cenomel ! 

* I remember the time, for my spirit was stirr'd, 

* When afar off the voice of the turtle was heard, 
* " Arise ! come away ! " I arose. O despair 1 

* Led by what lying star, through what verduroua 

snare, 

* By what pathway dissembling in falsehood so 

sweet 

* A peril so fatal to me, did we meet ? 

* Oh, could I not take up the parable too, 

* As it fell from your lips, with a scorn all as true / 

* Woe to him, in whose nature, once kindled, the 

torch 
' Of Passion burns downward to blacken and 
scorch I 

* Woe to him that hath kiss'd and caroused cheek 

by jowl 

* With the harlot Corruption, and drain'd her wild 

bowl! 
< But shame, shame, and sorrow, O woman, to thee, 

* Whose hand sow'd the first seed of destruction in 

me ! 

* Whose lip taught the first lesson of falsehood to 

mine ! 

* Whose looks first made me doubt lies that look'd 

so divine ! 

* My soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep : 
And if tears I mistrust, 't is that thou too canst 

weep! 

* Well ! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake 

* In the love of a man, what more change need it 

make 

* In the steps of his soul through the course love 

began, 

* Than all other mistakes in the life of a man ? 



CAicro v.] LUCILK. 277 

*And I said co myself, "I am young yet: too 
young 

* To have wholly survived my own portion among 

* The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its 

joys ; 

* What is broken ? one only of youth's pleasant 

to}s ! 
' Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go, 

* For one passion survived ? No I the roses will 

blow 

* As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing, 
*Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from 

Spring ! 
'Hast thou loved, O my heart? to thy love yet 
remains 

* All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The 

plains 

* And the hills with each summer their verdure 

renew : 

* Wouldst thou be as they are ? do thou then aa 

they do. 

* Let the dead sleep in peace. Would the living 

divine 

* Where they slumber ? Let only new flowers be 

the sign ! 

* Since the bird of the wood flits and sings round 

the nest 

* Where He broken the eggs she once warm'd with 

her breast ; 

* Since the flower of the field, newly born yester- 

day, 

•When to-morrow a new bud hath burst on tlia 
spray, 

•Folds, and falls in the night, unrepining, un- 
seen ; 

^ Since aloof in the forests, when forests are green, 

* You may hear through the silence the dead wood 

that cracks, 



278 LUCILE. [Part IL 

* Since man, where his course throughout nature 

he tracks, 
*In all things one science to soothe him may find, 
*To walk on, and look forward, and never be- 

liind, 

* — What to me, O my heart, is thy joy or thy 

sorrow ? 

* What the tears of to-day or the sneers of to- 

morrow ? 

* What is life ? what is death ? what the false ? 

what the true ? 

* And what is the harm that one woman can do ? " 

* Vain ! all vain 1 . . . For when, laughing, the wino 

I would (juaff, 

* I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. 
Through the revel it was but the old song I heard, 

* Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me 

they stirr'd, 

* In the night- wind, the starlight, the murmurs of 

even, 
*In the ardours of earth, and the languors of 
heaven, 

* I could trace nothing more, nothing more through 

the spheres, 

* But the sound of old sobs, and the tracks of old 

tears ! 

* It was with me the night long in dreaming or 

waking, 
*It abided in loathing, when daylight was break- 
ing, 

* The burthen of the bitterness in me ! Behold 

* All my days were become as a tale that is told. 
*And I said to my sight, "No good thing shalt 

thou see, 
For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. 

* In tlie house of Oblivion my bed I have made." 

» And I said to the grave, " Lo, my father I " and 
said 



Ca«xo v.] lucilb. 279 

* To the worm, " Lo, my sister I " The dust to the 

dust, 
♦And one end to the wicked shall be with the 
just I' 

vn. 

He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night, 
And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct 

light 
A voice, clear, and tender, and pure, with a tone 
Of ineflable pity replied to his own. 

* And say you, and deem you, that I wreck'd your 

life ? 

* Alas ! Due de Luvois, had I been your wife 

*By a fraud of the heart which could yield you 
alone 

* For the love in your nature a lie in my own, 

* Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you 

worse ? 

* Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse, 

* For I then should have wrong'd you I ' 

' Wrong'd ! ah, is it so ? 

* You could never have loved me ? * 

* Duke ! ' 
* Never ? oh no I * 
(He broke into a fierce angry laugh, as he said) 
' Yet, lady, you knew that I loved you : you led 
' My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour, 

* All the pale, cruel, beautiful, passionless power 

* Shut up in that cold face of yours ! was this well ? 

* But enough ! not on you would I vent the wild 

^ hell 

* Which has grown in my heart. Oh that man, 

first and last 

* He tramples in triumph my life 1 liQ has cast 

* His shadow 'twixt me and the sun ... let it pass 

* My hate yet may find him I * 

She murmur'd, * ALs 

* These words, at le^st, spare me the pain of reply. 



280 LUCILE. [fAKI U 

* Enough, Due de Luvois ! farewell. I shall try 
To forget every word I have heard, every siglit 

*' That has grieved and appall'd me in this wrett Lci] 
night 

* Which must witness our final farewell. Ma}- yra. 

Duke, 
'Never know greater cause your own heart to 

rebuke 
»Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have 

had! 

* Adieu 1 * 

' Stay, Lucile, stay ! * ... he groan'd, 
... * I am mad, 

* Brutalized, blind with pain I 1 know not what I 

said. 

* I meant it not. But ' (he moan'd, drooping hia 

head) 

* I suffer, and pain is perchance all unjust ; 

* 'T is the worm trodden down that yet stings in the 

dust. 

* Forgive me 1 I — have I so wrong'd you, Lucile ? 

* I . . . have I . . . forgive me, forgive me 1 ' 

'I feel 

* Only sad, very sad to the soul,' she said, * far, 

* Far too sad for resentment.' 

* Yet stand as you are 

* One moment,' he murmur'd. ' I think, could 1 

gaze 

* Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days'. 

* Would come back upon me, and this scorching 

heart 

* Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart 

* Thus, Lucile I stay one moment. I know why 

you shrink, 

* Why you shudder ; I read in your face what you 

think. 
Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will, 
^- Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. 
Do not fear I should justify aught I have done. 



Caoto v.] LUCILE. 281 

'I feel I have sinn'd. Yet this night you have 
won 

* A great battle from me. Teach, O teach me to 

bear 
' The defeat I have merited ! Teach my despair 
' Some retributive penance to purge this foul past 
' And work out life's penal redemption at last ! 
' Only speak ! ' 

' Could I help you,' she murmur'd, * my heart 

* Would bless Heaven indeed if before we thus part 
'I could rescue from out the wild work of this 

night 
' One holier memory, one gleam of light 
' Out of this hour of darkness I But what can I 

say? 

* This deep sense of pity seems utterless I * 

'Nay, 

* I have sufier'd,' he answer'd, ' but yet do not 

think 

* That, whatever my fate, I have shrunk, or do 

shrink. 
*When the peasant, at nightfall, regaining the 
door 

* Of his hut, finds the tempest hath been there 

before ; 
'That the thunder hath wasted the harvest he 
sow'd, 

* And the lightning to ashes consumed his abode ; 

' The wild fact to his senses one moment may 
seem 
Like a haggard, confused, and unnatural dream : 
The vast night is sombre all round him; the 

earth 
' Smoulders lurid and angry ; he stands on his 
hearth 

* And looks round for the welcome of old, and the 

place 
' Where his wife used to sit with the sniAle on hej 
face ; 



282 LUCILB. [Pari H 

* A heap of red ashes lies strewn on the heath. 
*But in darkness of night, and with silence of 

death, 

* He sits down, and already reflects on the morrow. 

* So I, in the night of my life, with my sorrow I 

* Ah ! but henceforth in vain shall I till that wild 

field. 

* It is blasted : no harvest these furrows will yield. 

* True I my life hath brought forth only evil, and 

there 

* The wild wind hath planted the wUd weed : yet ere 

* You exclaim, " Fling the weed to the flames,*' 

think again 

* Why the field is so barren. With all other men 
'First love, though it perish from life, only goes 

* Like the primrose that falls to make way for the 

rose. 

* For a man, at least most men, may love on throujh 

fife : 
' Love in fame ; love in knowledge ; in work : eai \ 6 
is rife 

* With labour, and therefore with love, for a man. 

* If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan 

* Of man's life includes love in all objects I But 1 1 

* All such loves from my life through its whole des- 

tiny 

* Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas ! 

* Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that 

pass ! 

* It perish'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition ? 

* Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition. 

* Fame ? But fame in itself presupposes some great 

* Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State ? 
*I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to 

draw 

* From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of 

Luvois 
<< To defend \isurpation ? Book?, then ? Scienw<», 
Art? 



€amto v.] lucile. 283 

* But, alas ! 1 was fashioned for action : my heart, 

* Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly com- 

press 

* 'Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics : life's 

stress 

* Needs scope, not contraction 1 what rests ? to wear 

out 
'At some dark northern court an existence, no 

doubt, 
' In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause 

* As hopeless as is my own life 1 By the laws 
' Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, 

' I am what I am I ' 



For a while she was mute. 
Then she answer'd, ' We are our own fates. Our 
own deeds 

* Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for 

men's creeds, 

* But men's actions. And, Due de Luvois, I might 

say 
*That all life attests, that "the will makes the 
way." 

* I might say, in a world full of lips that lack bread 

* And of souls that lack light, there are mouths to 

be fed, 

* There are wounds to be heal'd, there is work to 

be done, 

* And life can withhold love and duty from none. 

* Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth, 

* Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the lesa 

worth 

* Our upholding, because the white lily no more 
Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore ? 
Yet be that as it may be ; I cannot j)erchance 
Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and 

France 
Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, thougn, 
Eugene 



284 LUCILE. [Part IL 

De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose in 
pain, 

* Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul 
*That the great master hand which sweeps over 

the whole 

* Of this deep harp of life, if at moments it stretch 

* To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, meani 

to fetch 
*Its response the truest, most stringent, and smart, 
Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung heart, 
Whose faculties, flaccid, it may be, if less 
' Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to ex* 
press 

* Just the one note the great final harmony needs. 

* And what best proves there 's life in a heart ? — 

that it bleeds ! 
' Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain, 

* Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain ! 

* Cease the sin with the sorrow 1 See morning be- 

gin 1 ^ 

* Pain must burn itself out if not fuell'd by sin. 

* There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yoD 

light. 

* Let hate and despondency die with the night 1 ' 

He was moved by her words. As some poor 

wretch confined 
In cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose 

mind 
Wanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may hear 
A voice heard long since, silenced many a year, 
And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again. 
Singing thro' the caged lattice a once well-known 

strain. 
Which brings back his boyhood upon it, until 
The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill 
With music and memory, and, as it were, 
The long-troubled spirit grows filowly aware 
Of the mockery round it, and shrinks from each 

thing 



Canto V.J lucile. 285 

It once sought, — the poor idiot who pass'cl( for a 

king,_ 
Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now con- 

fess'd 
A madman more painfully mad than the rest, — 
So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er 
His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore 
The forces of thought : he recaptured the whole 
Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul 
Reflected on his : he appear'd to awake 
From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a 

mistake : 
His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him : 
He felt his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim. 
But he murmur'd . . . 

* Lucile, not for me that sun's light 

* Which reveals — not restores — the wild havoc of 

night. 
' There are some creatures born for the night, not 

the day. 
' Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray, 
' And the owl's moody mind in his own hollow 

tower 

* Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my 

dower. 

* Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by 

which eyes 

* Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize 
' Enough desolation.' 

* Take comfort,' she said, 

* Above all, — that in mercy, this night, I was led 

* To save you, in saving another 1 Oh yet, 

' Thank Heaven that you have not quite barter'd 
regret 

* For remorse, nor the sad self-redemptions of grief 

* For a self-retribution beyond all relief I* 

IX. 

* Retribution I * he falter'd. * Ah, that work beginik 



286 LUCILE. [Pa«t n. 

* Could you see but the process I Whatever my 

sins, 

* I will live on myself to avenge them, Lucile. 

* And if aught on this darkness now gleams, 'tis the 

steel 

* That executes judgment. My own hand lays 

bare 

* The axe that awaits me I ' 

' Alas, Duke, beware \ 

* There is a remorse which is sin crowning sin. 
' There is a humility which is akin 

* To the pride of perdition. The pride that ctaipa*' 

here 

* On earth to itself (howsoever severe 

* To itself it may be) God's dread office and rigK 

* Of punishing sin, is a sin in Heaven's sight, 

* And against Heaven's service. Leave Heavec*^ 

work to Heaven ! 

* Let us pray, not indeed to be judged, but fos- 

given ; 
' Pray for pardon, not penance. Eugfene de Luvoif 

* Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows *li« 

law. 

* Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all 

* His own executioner. Man's pride must fall 

' When it stands up in judgment. Then kneel 
Eugene, kneel, 

* And hope, kneeling and praying 1 ' she murmur'd. 

' Lucile,' 
He exclaim'd, and unconsciously sank on his knees, 
Overawed by her look. 

Then, by solemn degrees, 
There crept on the midnight within him a cold 
Keen gleam of spiritual light. Fold by fold, 
The films of his self-gather'd blindness, in part 
Were breath'd bare, and the dawn shudder'd into 

his heart. 
She was silent. At length he look'd upward, and 

saw 



Canto V.] lucile. 287 

That sad serene countenance, mournful as law 
And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him : and heard 
In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird. 
The dawn, and the dews of the dawn 1 . . . To hia 

eyes. 
Tears, he felt them, youth's long lost familiars, 

arise 1 



' O Lucile ! my predestined, inscrutable fate ! 
' Thou hast forced me to weep, but the tears flow 
too late. 

* Why, I know not 1 they cannot extinguish the fire 
' That consumes me. Leave, leave me the scorn 

and the ire 

* WMch are all that can yet give me strength to 

resign 

* Those gentler emotions which might have been 

mine.' 

XI. 

* Scorn and Ire are but shadows that stand at the 

gate 
' Of the Heavenly Land,' she replied. * Scorn and 
hate 

* Have no life in themselves. They are devil-born 

things — 
' 'T is our cowardice only that gives to them stings. 
' They may scare the rash fool, but they cannot 

dismay 
' The hero predestin'd to conquer his way. 
' From tlie eye that hath courage to look in their face 

* They shrink into darkness, and leave not a trace 

* On the soul, save the sense of a solemn thanks- 

giving 

* For the danger subdued, and the strength found 

in striving, 
' When she enters the calm that is co«>qaer'd fr«tigsi 
strife. 



288 LUCILE. [Part II. 

' Self-conscious, and sings in the sabbath of life! 

* Vulgar natures alone suffer vainly. 

' Eugene 
' De Luvois, in this life we have met once again, 

* And once more life parts us. Yon dayspring for 

me 
' Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be 
' We shall meet never more. Grant, oh grant to 

me yet 

* The belief that it is not in vain we have met ! 
' I plead for the future. A new horoscope 

'I would cast: will you read it? I plead for a 

hope : 
' I plead for a memory ; yours, yours alone, 
' To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your 

own, 

* Be the memory mine. 

* Once of yore, when for man 
' Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard be- 
gan, 
'Men, aroused to the knowledge of evil, fled far 
'From the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the 

war 
'With the Pagan, the cave in the desert, and 

sought 
' ISTot repose, but employment in action or thought, 
' Life's strong earnest, in all things ! oh think not 

of me, 
' But yourself! for I plead for your own destiny : 
' I plead for your life, with its duties undone, 
' With its claims unappeased, and its trophies un- 

won ; 
' And in pleading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead 
' For all that you miss, and for all that you need.' 



Thro' the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she 

spoke, 
A clear chilly chime from a church-turret broke ; 



Cawto v.] lucile. 289 

And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the 

bell 
On his ear, where he kneel'd, softly, soothingly 

fell. 
All within him was wild and confused, as within 
A chamber deserted in some roadside inn, 
"Where, passing, wUd travellers paused, overnighi, 
To quaff' and carouse ; in its socket each light 
is extinct; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the 

wall 
AVith wild, ribald ballads : serenely o'er all. 
For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light 

creeps faint 
tThro' the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a saint 
Seen thro' some broken frame appears noting 

meanwhile 
The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. 
And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness 

half drawn 
Oped behind her ; and pure as the pure light of 

dawn 
She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his 

eyes 
From their sight to be melting away in the skies 
That expanded around her. 



There pass'd thro' his head 
A fancy — a vision. That woman was dead 
He had loved long ago — loved and lost I dead to 

him. 
Dead to all the life left him; but there, in the 

dim 
Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit; 'twas hers; 
And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers, 
' O soul, to its sources departing away ! 

* Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray. 

* I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power, 
One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour 

19 



290 LUCILE. . [Pakt IL 

* I name not my heart, and I speak not to thine. 
Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine, 

* Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart 

denies, 

* Hope, when hope is salvation ? Behold, in yon 

skies, 
This wild night is passing away while I speak : 
Lo, above us, the dayspring beginning to break 1 

* Something wakens within me, and warms to the 

beam. 
' Is it hope that awakens ? or do I but dream ? 
' I know not. It may be, perchance, the first spark 
•* Of a new light within me to solace the dark 
' Unto which I return ; or perchance it may be 

* The last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me. 
' I know not. Thou goest thy way : I my own : 
' For good or for evil, I know not. Alone 

* This I know : my heart softens. The ghosts of 

old years 

* Seem appeased for a moment. Just now I shed 

tears ; 

* And for those tears I thank thee. I should have 

sinn'd less, 

* SufTer'd less, if I could have wept more. I would 

bless 

* (I whose heart sought to curse thee !) — would 

bless thee, Lucile. 
*But what were my curse, or my blessing? I 

feel 
•^ This alone ; we are parting. I wish'd to say 

more, 
^ But no matter ! 't will pass. All between us is o'er. 
'Forget the wild words of to-night. 'Twas the 

pain 

* For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me 

again. 

* I was unjust : forgive me. Spare now to reprove 

* Other words, other deeds. It was madness, not 

love, 



Canto V.] lucile. 291 

' That you thwarted this night. What Is done la 

now done. 

* Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. 
' I was madden'd, delirious ! I saw you return 

' To him — not to me ; and I felt my heart burn 

* With a fierce thirst for vengeance — and thus 

... let it pass 1 
' Long thoughts these, and so brief the momects, 

alas ! 
' Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose 
' 'T is to meet never more. Is it not so ? Who 

knows, 

* Or who heeds, where the exile from. Paradise 

flies? 
' Or what altars of his in the desert may rise ? 
' Is it not so, Lucile ? Well, well 1 Thus then we 

part 

* Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from 

heart I ' 



And again, clearer far than the chime of the bell, 
That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. 
' Our two paths must part us, Eugene ; for my 
own 

* Seems no more through that world in which 

henceforth alone 

* You must work out (as now I believe that you 

will) 

* The hope which you speak of. That work 1 shall 

still 
(If I live) watch and welcome, and bless fai 
away. 

* Doubt not this. Bu$ mistake not the thought, if 

I say, 
' That the great mortal combat between human life 

* And each human soul must be single. The strife 

* None can share, tho* by all its rcjsults may be 

known. 



292 LUCILE. [Part IJL 

*When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth 

alone. 
' I say not, indeed, we shall meet never more, 
' For I know not. But meet, as we have met of 

yore, 

* I know that we cannot. Perchance we may 

meet 

* B}' the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in tho 

street, 

* Or in solitude even, but never again 

* Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, 

Eugene. 
' For we know not the way we are going, nor yet 

* Where our two ways may meet, or may cross. 

Life hath set 

* No landmarks before us. But this, this alone, 

* I will promise : whatever your path, or my own, 

* If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance 

* That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, 

and lance 

* Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the 

war, 

* You falter and hesitate, if from afar 

* 1, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) 

* O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should 

see 

* That my presence could rescue, support you, or 

guide, 

* In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, 

* To warn, if you wiU, or incite, or control ; 
*And again, oace again, we shall meet, soul t-« 

soul 1* 

XV. 

The voice ceased. 

He uplifted his eyes. 

All alone 
ttc stood on the bare edge of dawn. She wa» 
gone, 



CAK-rO v.] L'JCILE. 293 

Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night, 
Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of 

light. 
And at once, in her place, was the Sunrise I It 

rose 
In its sumptuous splendour and solemn repose, 
The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold, 
llealms of rose, in the Orient I And breathless, 

and bold, 
While the great gates of heaven roU'd back one by 

one. 
The bright herald angel stood stern in the sun 1 
Thrice holy Eospheros 1 Light's reign began 
In the heaven, on the earth, in the heart of the 

man. 
The dawn on the mountains 1 the dawn every- 
where 1 
Light ! silence ! the fresh renovations of air I 
O earth, and O ether I A butterfly breeze 
Floated up, fluttered down, and poised blithe on 

the trees. 
Through the revelling woods, ofer the sharp rip 

pled stream. 
Up the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream. 
Around the brown meadows, adown the hill slope, 
The spirits of morning were whispering ' Hope ' * 

XVI. 

He uplifted his eyes. In the place where sha 

stood 
But a moment before, and where now roll'd tlia 

flood ^ 
Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, 
In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold 
Of his own golden youth. Such a youth as tha* 

night 
He had painted it to her. There rose on his sigh* 
A vision of knightly forefathers, of fame, 
'^^ ■ ' '"' and France by the name 



294 LUCILE. [Part II 

Of liis shea aeem'd to call him. There, hover'd in 

light 
That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright 
And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd 

to be 
Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he 
Had once dwelt, a native ! 

There, rooted and bound 
To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it 1 Around 
The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone 
Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone : 
And he — as the body may yearn for the soul, 
So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole 
Heart arose to regain it. 

* And is it too late ? * 
No ! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. 
Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. 
For the thought that springs upward and yearns to 

regain 
The pure source of spirit, there is no Too late. 
As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate 
In the fountain arises, the spirit in him 
Arose to that image. The image waned dim 
Into heaven ; and heavenward with it, to melt 
As it melted, in day's broad expansion, he felt 
With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense — 

awed, amazed — 
Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed 



OABTO VI 1 LUCILE. 295 



CANTO VI. 



Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rePxd 
Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend. 
By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern 

shocks 
That have shatter'd creation, and shapen it, rocks. 
He leaps with a wail into being ; and lo ! 
His own mother, fierce Nature herself, is his foe. 
Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head : 
*Neath his feet roll her earthquakes : her solitudes 

spread 
To daunt him : her forces dispute his command ; 
Her snows fall to freeze him: her suns burn to 

brand : 
Her seas yawn to ingulf him : her rocks rise to 

crush : 
And the lion and leopard, allied, lurk to rush 
On their startled Invader. 

In lone Malabar, 
Where the infinite forest spreads breathless and 

far, 
*Mid the cruel of eye and the stealthy of claw 
(Striped and spotted destroyers!) he sees, pale 

with awe, 
On the menacing edge of a fiery sky 
Grim Doorga, blue-hmb'd and red-handed, go by, 
And the first thing he worships is Terror. 

Anon, 
Still impell'd by Necessity hungrily on, 
He conquers the realms of his own self-reliance, 
And the last cry of fear wakes the first of defianca 
From the serpent he crushes its poisonous soul • 



596 LUCILE. [Part IL 

Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll I 
On toward Heaven the son of Alcmena strides 

high on 
The heads of the Hydra, the spoils of the lion : 
And man, conquering Terror, is worshipp'd by 



A camp has this world been since first it began 1 
From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian; at 

peace, 
A mere wandering shepherd that follows the fieece ; 
But, warring his way thro' a world's destinies, 
Lo from Delhi, from Bagdadt, from Cordova, rise 
Domes of empiry, dower'd with science and art, 
Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart ! 

New realms to man's soul have been conquer'd. 

But those, 
Forthwith they are peopled for man by new foes ! 
The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides her 

own, 
And bold must the man be that braves the Ur- 

known I 
Not a truth has to art or to science been given, 
But brows have ached for it, and souls toil'd and 

striven ; 
And many have striven, and many have fail'd, 
And many died, slain by the truth they asisail'd. 
But when Man hath tamed Nature, asserted bia 

place 
And dominion, behold 1 he is brought face to face 
With a new foe — himself 1 War is open'd within 
His own heart : for self-knowledge is knowledge of 

sin. 
And many have striven, and many in vain, 
With the still rebel heart, and the still bafJ^ed 

brain ; — 
Some have conquer'd, some died of that conqueit^ 

but all 



CajtTO VI.] LUCILE. 297 

Have suffer'd, all struggled ; and, whether he fall 
Or whether he vanquish, still man, on the field 
Of life's lasting war, may not rest on his shield. 
May not lean on his spear, till the armed Arch- 
angel 
Sound o'er him the trump of earth's final evangel. 

Now 't is Thought attacks Thought. And the dread 

battle-plain 
Of that war is the soul, now, herself. And again 
The Immortals take part in the battle ; and Heaven 
And Hell to the conflict their counsels have given. 
See ! stern Torquemada dooms Thought to expire I 
Hark ! the psalm of the martjT soars upward in fire ! 
Then the auto-da-fes are extinguish'd : back roll 
Dense volumes of darkness : and, sovran, the soul 
Chants her paBan, proclaiming to Earth Heaven's 

freedom. 
And who is it that comes with dyed garments from 

Edom? 
His foot in the blood of the winepress is wet, 
And that foot on the head of the serpent is set ! 

Oh were naught gain'd beside from this conflict of 

Thought, 
Man, at least, in alliance with man hath been 

brought. 
The wide world owns no longer one master alone, 
And no more every nation is vassal to one. 
Now the strong need the weak, and the weak aid 

the strong; 
Gracious laws whereby Peace may her lifetime 

prolong 
Have been wrought out of wrath by the swords of 

mankind, 
And the shout of free nations rolls forth on the 

wind. 
May the sword then be sheath'd ? may the banner 

be furl'd ? 



298 LUCILB. [Pabt II. 

And is Peace crown'd forever, fair Queen of the 

World? 
Nay, Peace holds the sword to establish her state, 
And the sentinel walks by the white temple-gate, 
Lest the Lion, by night, to the Leopard should say, 
■' Arise, Brother Leopard, and forth on the prey ! ' 
tStill the watchfire must burn, still the watchman 

must wake, 
And still Force arm to keep what still Force arms 

to take. 

\VTiat is worth living for is worth dying for too. 
And therefore all honour, brave hearts ! unto you 
Who have fallen, that Freedom, more fair by your 

death, 
A pilgrim, may walk where your blood on her 

path 
Leads her steps to your graves I 

Let them babble above you I 
Sleep well ! where no breath of detraction may 

move you. 
And the peace the world gives not is yours at the 

last ! 
Chiefly you, sons of England, whose life-blood hath 

past 
Into England's own being ! or whether your names, 
'Mid the shrines of her kings, the pale tablet pro= 

claims ; 
Or, recorded alone in some fond widow'd heart, 
Amidst Spain's arid vines, vex'd no more by th« 

dart 
Of the suns of the south, or on wide Waterloo, 
You now slumber; or where the chill Baltic roll-? 

blue; 
Or the crocus of Asia may brighten your bed ; 
Or 'mid halls in the Orient, where latest you bled, 
Where Horror still hears, up the pale marble floor, 
Thro' curtains twice crimson'd, the drip of your 

gore. 



CAuro VI.] LUCILE. 5J!)9 

You, sons of one mother, who boast from your 

bii-th 
Of our England's fair name 'mid the nations of 

earth, 
You who — 'midst the gi'ay castles the swordri of 

our sires 
Have left us to fight for ; the pastoral spires 
A^'here we breathed our first prayers ; and our 

green lanes, so green 1 
JVhere spring is thrice spring, and each maiden a 

queen — 
^ove these things with a love that is threefold, be- 
cause 
rhere a man may, unvex'd by iniquitous laws, 
Bay the thing that he thinks, do the thing that he 

needs : 
There Thought may find freedom for all honest 

creeds ; 
There Opinion may circle from soul on to soul ; 
And Enterprise broadly embrace either pole ; 
Forget not whose blood with its sanction hath seal'd 
This, our boast, upon many a far foughten field. 
AVhat is worth living for is worth dying for too. 
Forget not the Dead who died for us 1 

And you 
Whom this song cannot reach with its transient 

breath. 
Deaf ears that are stopp'd with the brown dust of 

death. 
Blind eyes that are dark to your own deathless 

Silenced hearts that are heedless to praise mur- 
mur'd o'er ye, 

Sleep deep ! sleep in peace ! sleep in memory ever 1 

Wrapt, each soul in the deeds of its deathless en- 
deavour, 

Till that great Final Peace shall be struck .tlu'ough 
the world ; 

Till the stars be recall'd, and the firmament furl'd 



300 LUOiLE. (Part 11 

In the dawn of a daylight undying , until 
The signal of Sion be seen on the Hill 
Of the Lord ; when the day of the battle is done, 
And the conflict with Time by Eternity won ! 

Till then, while the ages roll onward, thro' war, 
Toil, and strife, must roll with them this turbulent 

star. 
And man can no more exclude War, than he can 
Exclude Sorrow ; for both are conditions of man, 
And agents of God. Truth's supreme revelations 
Come in sorrow to men, and in war come to na 

tions. 
Then blow, blow the clarion I and let the war roll ! 
And strike steel upon steel, and strike soul upon 

soul, 
If, in striking, we kindle keen flashes and bright 
From the manhood in man, stricken thus into light. 



Silence straightway, stern Muse, the soft cymbals 

of pleasure, 
Be all bronzen these numbers, and martial tho 

measure 1 
Breathe, sonorously breathe, o'er the spirit in me 
One strain, sad and stern, of that deep Epopee 
Which thou, from the fashionless cloud of far time, 
Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and subhme 
In the light of the aureole over her head. 
Hears, and heeds not the wound in her heart fresb 

and red. 
Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold 
The shriU clanging curtains of war I 

And behold 
A vision ! 

The antique Heraclean seats ; 
And the long Black Sea billow that once bore those 

fleets, 
Which said to the winds, ' Be ye, too, Genoese 1 *. 



Canto VI.] LUCILE. SOI 

And the red, angry sands of the chafed Cherso- 
nese ; 
And the two foea of man, War and Wiater, allied 
Round the Armies of England and France, side by 

side 
Enduring and dying (Gaul and Britain abreast 1) 
Where the towers of the North fret the skies of 
the East. 



Since that sunrise, which rose thro' the calm linden 

stems 
O'er Lucile and Eugbne, in the garden at Ems, 
Thro' twenty-five seasons encircling the sun, 
This planet of ours on its pathway hath gone, 
And the fates that I sing of have flow'd with the 

fates 
Of a world, in the red wake of war, round the 

gates 
Of that doom'd and heroical city, in which 
(Fu'e crowning the rampart, blood bathing the 

ditch I) 
At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted bear. 
Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at last in 

his lair. 



A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with underground fir* 
Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, mash'd to one 

gory mire 1 
There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid suspense, 
While those two famish'd ogres — the Siege, the 

Defence, 
Face to face, thro' a vapour frore, disnml, and dun, 
Glare, scenting the breath of each other. 

The one 
Double-bodied, two-headed — by separate ways 
Winding, serpentwise, nearer ; the other, ea(;b 

day's 



a02 LUCILE. [Pari H 

Sullen toil adding size to, — concentrated, solid, 
Indefatigable — the brass-fronted, embodied, 
And audible avros gone sombrely forth 
To the world from that Autocrat Will of the north 



In the dawns of a mopdy October, a pale, 
Ghostly, motionless vapour began to prevail 
Over city and camp ; like that garment of death 
Which takes form from the face it conceals. 

'T was the breath 
War, yet drowsily yawning, began to suspire ; 
Wherethro', here and there, flash'd an eye of red 

fire. 
And closed, from some rampart beginning to bel- 
low 
Its hoarse challenge ; answer'd anon, thro' the yel" 

low 
And sulphurous twilight : till day reel'd and 

rock'd, 
And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight waa 

mock'd 
With fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rain 
Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous plain 
Flared with fitful combustion ; where frequently 

fell 
Afar off the fatal, disgorged scharpenelle, 
And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom 
With wings of swift flame round that City of 

Doom. 



So the day — so the night I So by night, so by 

day, 
With stern, patient pathos, while time wears away, 
In the trench flooded thro*, in the wind where it 

wails, 
In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it 

hails 



Camto VI-l LUCILE. 303 

Shot and shell — link by link, out of hardship and 

pain, 
Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze 

chain 
Of those terrible siege-lines 1 

No change to that toil 
Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous 

soil. 
Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the 

niaim'd, 
And Death's daily obolus due, whether claim'd 
By man or by nature. 



Time passes. The dumb 
Bitter, snow-bound, and sullen November is come, 
And its snows have been bathed in the blood of tl © 

brave : 
And many a young heart has glutted the grave : 
And on Inkerman yet the wild bramble is gory, 
And those bleak heights henceforth shall be famous 

in story. 



The moon, swath'd in storm, has long set : thro' 

the camp 
No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp. 
The distant explosion, the wild sleety wind, 
That seems searching for something it never can 

find. 
The midnight is turning : the lamp is nigh spent : 
And, wounded and' lone, in a desolate tent 
Lies a young British officer who . . . 

In this place, 
However, my Muse is compell'd to retrace 
Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. 
The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last 
Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holiday nature 
ilad sharply drawn forth to his full size and statur? 



304 LUCILE. [Part: R. 

The real man, eonceal'd till that moment beneath 
All he yet had appeared. From the gay broider'd 

sheath 
Which a man in his wi'ath flings aside, even so 
Leaps the keen trenchant steel summon'd forth by 

a blow. 
And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. 
The -wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, 
In that home which, tho' humbled and narrow'd by 

fate, 
Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their 

state, 
But large their possessions. 

Sir Ridley, forgiven 
By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven 
By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek 

speech 
The hypocrite broujht his own soul, safe from 

reach 
Of the law, died abroad. 

Cousin John, heart and hand, 
Purse and person, henceforth (honest man !) took 

his stand 
By Matilda and Alfred; guest, guardian, and 

friend 
Of the home he both shared and assured, to the 

end. 
With his large lively love. Alfred Vargrave mean- 
while 
Faced the world's frown, consoled by his wife's 

faithful smile. 
Late in life, he began life in earnest ; and still, 
With the tranquil exertion of resolute will. 
Thro' long, and laborious, and difficult days, 
Out of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, 
Work'd his way through the world ; till at last he 

began, 
(Reconciled to the work which mankind claims 

from man) 



Canto "Vl.J lucile. S05 

After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavour, 
Years impassion'd yet patient, to realize ever 
More clear on the broad stream of current opinion 
The rellex of powers in himself — that dominion 
Whish the life of one man, if his life be a truth. 
May assort o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his 

youth 
la his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he won 
Working only for home, love, and duty. 

One son 
Matilda had borne him ; but scarce had the boy. 
With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank 

joy, 
The darling of young soldier comrades, just 

gLauced 
Down the glad dawn of manhood at life, when it 

chanced 
That ct blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er 

the bloom 
Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom 
Of a grief premature on their fair promise fell : 
No light cloud like those which, for June to 

dispel, 
Captious April engenders ; but deep as his own 
Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known 
The cause of this sorrow, I track the event. 
When lii'st a wild war-note thro' England was 

sent. 
He, transferring without either token, or word, 
To friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword, 
Frcm a holiday troop, to one bound for the war, 
Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death in the 

star 
Whence others sought glory. Thus, fighting, he 

fell 
On the red field of Inkerman; found, who can 

tell 
By what miracle, breatliing, tho' shatter'd, and 

borue 

20 



306 LUCILE. [Part II 

To the rear by hjs comrades, pierced, bleeding, 

and torn. 
Where for long days and nights, with the wound 

in his side, 
lie lay, dark. 



But a wound deeper far, undescried, 
In the young heart was rankling : for there, of a 

truth. 
In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive youth, 
A love large as life, deep and changeless as death, 
I aj ensheathed : and that love, ever fretting its 

sheath, 
The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore thro* 

and thro'. 
There are loves in man's life for which time can 

renew 
All that time may destroy. Lives there are, tho', 

in love. 
Which cling to one faith, and die with it ; nor move, 
Tho' earthquakes may shatter the shrine. 

Whence or how 
Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not 

now. 



Oh is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ? 

A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight ? 

The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain 

Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd 
curtain. 

To and fro, up and down. 

But it is not the wind 

That is lifting it now : and it is not the mind 

That hath moulded that vision. 

A pale woman enters, 

As wan as the lamp's waning hght, which con- 
centres 



Cawto n.'] LUCILE. 807 

its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and 

dimmer 
There, all in a slumbrous and shadowy glimmer, 
The sufferer sees that still form floating on, 
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. 
She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands 
By his bedside, all silent. She lays her white 

hands 
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing 
Softly, softly, the sore wounds : the hot blood- 

stain'd dressing 
Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals 
Tlu'o' the rack'd weary frame : and, throughout it, 

he feels 
The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood. 
Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a 

gray hood 
Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are beiit 

o'er him. 
And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form 

before him. 
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping 1 
A soft voice says ... * Sleep ! ' 

And he sleeps : he is sleeping. 



He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : 
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring 

care 
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering 
The aspect of all things around hmi. 

Revering 
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd 
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest 
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he 

faintly 
Sigh'd . . . ' Say what thou art, blessed dream of a 

saintly 
* And minist'ring spirit 1 ' 



508 LUCILE. [Part H. 

A whisper serene 
Slid, aofter than silence . . . ' The Soeur Seraphine, 

* A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 

* Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy 

sire, 

* For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. 

* Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'T ia 

more brave 

* To live; than to die. Sleep I ' 

He sleeps : he is sleepmg. 



He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steep 
ing 

The skies with chill splendour. And there, never 
flitting. 

Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. 

As the dawn to the darkness, so life eeem'd return- 
ing 

Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet 
burning. 

Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. 

He said, 

* If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 

' Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 

* Of that balmy voice ; if it may be, revealing 

* Thy mission of mercy 1 whence art thou ? * 

' O son 

< Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One 

* Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead : 

* To thee, and to others, alive yet ' . . . she said . . 

* So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 

* Of this ministration : to them, and to thee, 

< Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose 

vocation 

* Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation 

* Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, 

* There her land ! there her kindred ! ' 

She bent down to smooth 



Canto VLJ lucllk. 309 

The hDt pillow and added ... * Yet more than 

another 
'Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy 

mother, 

* I knew them — I know them.* 

' Oh can it be ? you 

* My dearest dear father ! my mother ! you knew, 
' You know them ? ' 

She bow'd, half averting, her head 
In silence. 

He brokenly, timidly said, 

* Do they know I am thus ? ' 

' Hush 1 ' . . . she smiled, as she drew 
From her bosom two letters ; and — can it be true ? 
That beloved and familiar writing ! 

He burst 
Into tears . . . ' My poor mother — my father I the 
worst 

* Will have reach'd them ! ' 

' No, no I ' she exclaim'd with a smile, 

* They know you are Uving ; they know that mean- 

while 

* I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep 

not!' 
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot 
Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. 
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest : 
And he hears, as it were between smiling and 

weeping. 
The calm voice say ... * Sleep ! ' 

And he sleeps, he is sleepicg. 



And day follow'd day. And, as wave follows wave, 
With the tide, day by day, life, re-issuing, drave 
Thro' that young hardy frame novel currents of 

health. 
Yet some strange obstruction, which life's self by 

stealth 



810 LUCILE. [Part n 

Seem'd to cherish, impeded life's progi-ess. And 

still 
A feebleness, less of the frame than the will. 
Clung about the sick man : hid and harbour'd 

within 
The sad hollow eyes : pinch'd the cheek pale and 

thin: 
And clothed the wan fingers with languor. 

And there, 
Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care, 
Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien, 
And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine I 



A strange woman truly I not young ; yet her face, 
Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace 
Of a beauty which time could not ruin. For the 

whole 
Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transparent^ 

the soul 
Seem'd to fill with its own light, like some sunny 

fountain 
Everlastingly fed from far off in the mountain 
That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams. 
And all the more lovely for loneliness seems. 
So that, watching that face, you would scarce pause 

to guess 
The years which its calm careworn lines might 

express, 
Feeh'ng only what suffering with these must have 

past 
To have perfected there so much sweetness at last 



Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put out 
His brief thrifty fires, and the wind was about. 
The nun, watchful still by the boy, on his own 
Laid a firm, quiet hand, and the deep tender tone 
Of hei '^oice moved the silence. 



Cawto VI.] LUCILB. 311 

She said ... * I have heal'd 

* These wounds of the body. Why hast thou con- 

ceal'd, 

* Young soldier, that yet open -wound in the heart ? 

* Wilt thou trust no hand near it ? ' 

He winced, with a start, 
As of one that is suddenly touch'd on the spot 
From which every nerve derives suffering. 

' What ? 

* Lies my heart, then, so bare ? ' he moan'd bitterlv. 

'Nay,' 
With compassionate accents she hasten'd to say, 

* Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, 

young man, 

* So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan 

* Her features, yet know them not ? 

' Oh, was it spoken, 
* " Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the 

broken!" 
' Of th(; body alone ? Is our mission, then, done, 
' When we leave the bruised heart, if we bind the 

bruised bone ? 
' Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold ? 
' Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers, that 

we hold 
' To fulfil it, of Heaven ! For Heaven doth still 

* To us, Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill 

* Won from long intercourse with afflicti on, and art 

* Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of 

heart. 

* Trust to me ! ' (His two feeble hands in her own 
She drew gently.) ' Trust to me 1 ' (she said, with 

soft tone) ; 

* I am not so dead in remembrance to all 

* I have died to in this world, but what I recall 

* Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, 

* To gneve for both — save from both haply 1 ITia 

dial 
Receives many shades, and each points to the sun. 



312 LUCILE. [Part li. 

* The shadows are many, the sunlight Is one. 

* Life's sorrows still fluctuate : God's love does not. 

* And His love is unchanged, when it changes oar 

lot. 

* Lot)king up to this light, which is common to ;'.]l, 

* And down to these shadows, on each side, tliat 

fall 
' In Time's silent circle, so various for each, 

< Is it nothing to know that they never can reach 

' So far, but what light lies beyond them forever ? 

< Trust to me ! Oh, if in this hour I endeavour 

' To trace the shade creeping across the young 11 Se 

* Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd 

through its strife 
' With the shadow of death, 't is with this faith alone, 

* That, in tracing the shade, I shaU find out the 

sun. 
« Trust to me ! ' 

She paused : he was weeping. Small need 
Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed. 
Had those gentle accents to win from his pale 
And parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief 

tale 
Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old. 
And in words few as may be shall straightway be 

told. 



A few years ago, ere the fair form of Peace 
Was driven from Europe, a young girl — the nieca 
Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile 
By the wild northern soas, came to dwell for a 

while 
With a lady allied to hei* race — an old dame 
Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name, 
In the Faubourg Saint Germain. 

Upon that fair child, 
From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled. 
One uncle their place m her life had supplied, 



Canto VI.] jlucile. 81S 

And their pla<3e in her heart : she had grown at his 

side, 
And under his roof-treo, and in his regard, 
From childhood to girlhood. 

This fair orphan ward 
Seem'd the sole human creature that lived in the 

heart 
Of that stern, rigid man, or whose smile could im- 
part 
One ray of response to the eyes which, above 
Her fair infant forehead, look'd down with a love 
That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its chill 
Lofty stillness, like sunliglit on some lonely hill 
Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere. 

Grass grew in the courtyard; the chambers v/eiG 

bare 
In that ancient mansion ; when first the stern tread 
Of its owner awaken'd their echoes long dead : 
Bringing with him this infant (the child of a 

brother), 
Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother 
Had placed on his bosom. 'T was said — riglit or 

wrong — 
That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long. 
To which, as a stranger, its lord now return 'd, 
In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had 

burn'd 
The light of wild orgies. Be that false or true, 
Slow and sad was the footstep which now wandcr'd 

through 
Those desolate chambers ; and calm and severe 
Was the life of their inmate. 

Men now saw appear 
Every morn at the mass that firm, sorrowful face, 
Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case 
Tears harden'd to crystal. Yet harsh if he were, 
His {^verity seem'd to be trebly severe 
In the rul'^ of his own rigid life, which, at least. 



514 LUCILE. [Pakt n. 

Was benignant to otliers. The poor parish priest, 
Who lived on his largess, his piety praised. 
The peasant was fed, and the chapel was raised, 
And the cottage was built, by his liberal hand. 
Yet he seem'd in the midst of his good deeds to 

stand 
A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man. 
There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the plan 
Of his life, that love faiFd to pass over. 

That child 
Alone did not fear him, nor shrink from him; 

smiled 
To his frown, and dispell'd it. 

The sweet sportive elf 
Seem'd the t}^e of some joy lost, and miss'd, »n 

himself. 
Ever welcome he sufTer'd her glad face to glide 
[n on hours when to others his door was denied : 
And many a time with a mute, moody look 
He would watch her at prattle and play, like s 

brook 
Whose babble disturbs not the quietest spot. 
But soothes us because we need answer it not. 

But few years had pass'd o'er that childhood before 
A change came among them. A letter, which bore 
Sudden consequence with it, one morning v/aa 

placed 
In the hands of the lord of the chateau. He paced 
To and fro in his chamber a whole night alone 
After reading that letter. At dawn he was gone. 
Weeks pass'd. When he came back again ho re- 

turn'd 
With a tall, ancient dame fi"om whose lips the child 

learn'd 
That they were of the same race and name. With 

a face 
Sad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the race 
He confided the orphan, and left them alone 



Canto VI.] LtfCiLE. 315 

In the old lonely house. 

In a few days 't was known, 
To the angry surprise of half Paris, that one 
Of the chiefs of that party which, still clinging on 
To the banner that bears the white lilies of France,. 
Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the chance 
Of restoring their own, had renounced the watch- 
word 
And the creed of his youth in unsheathing his 

sword 
For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate !) 
By legitimate parents. 

And meanwhile, elate 
And in no wise disturbed by what Paris might say, 
The new soldier thus wrote to a friend far away ; — 
' To the life of inaction farewell ! After all, 
' Creeds the oldest may crumble, and dynasties fall, 
' But the sole grand Legitimacy will endure, 
' In whatever makes death noble, life strong and 

pure. 
* Freedom ! action ! . . . the desert to breathe in — 

the lance 
' Of the Arab to follow ! I go I Vive la France ! ' 

Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, aa 

years fled, 
'Twixt the child and the soldier. The two women 

led 
Lone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the child 

grew 
Into girlhood ; and, like a sunbeam, sliding through 
Her green quiet years, changed by gentle degrees 
To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees 
In his loveliest fancies : as pure as a pearl. 
And as perfect : a noble and innocent girl. 
With eighteen sweet summers dissolved in the light 
Of her lovely and lovable eyes, soft and bright ! 
Then her guardian wrote to the dame, . . . ' Let 

Constknce 



816 LUCiLE. [Pari R 

* Go witL you to Paris. I trust that in France 
' I may be ere the close of the year. I confide 
' My life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your side, 
' The world "vvhich we live in/ 

To Paris then came 
Constance to abide with that old stately dame 
In that old stately Faubourg. 

The young Englishman 
Thus met her. 'T.was there their acquaintance 

began, 
There it closed. That old miracle — Love-at-first- 

sight — 
Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright 
Its destiny sometimes. His love neither chidden 
Nor clieck'd, the young soldier was graciously 

bidden 
An habitual guest to that house by the dame. 
His own candid graces, the woi'ld-honour'd name 
Of his father (in him not dishonour'd) were both 
Fair titles to favour. His love, nothing loath, 
The old lady observed, was return'd by Constkncc. 
And as the child's uncle his absence from France 
Yet prolong'd, she (thus easing long sell-gratula- 

tion) 
Wrote to him a lengthen'd and moving narration 
Of the graces and gifts of the young English 

wooer : 
His father's fair fame ; the boy's deference to her 
His love for Constknce, — unaffected, sincere ; 
And the girl's love for him, read by her in those 

clear 
Limpid eyes ; then the pleasure with which she 

awaited 
Her cousin's approval of all she had stated. 

At length from that cousin an answer there came, 
Brief, stern ; such as stuun'd and astonish'd the 
dame. 



Canto VI.] lucile. 317 

* Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day 

* You receive this. Until my return she may stay 

* At her convent awhile. If my niece wishes ever 

* To behold me again, understand, she will never 

* Wed that man. 

' You have broken faith with me. Farewell I' 

No appeal from that sentence. 

It needs not to tell 
The tears of Constknce, nor the grief of her lover : 
The dream they had laid out then- lives in was 



Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the 

face 
Of a life, where invisible hands seem'd to trace 
O'er the threshold, these words . . . ' Hope no 

more ! ' 

Unreturn'd 
Had his love been, the strong manful heart would 

have spurn'd 
That weakness which suffers a woman to lie 
At the roots of man's life, like a canker, and dry 
And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there 
Lay the bitterer part of the pain ! Could he dare 
To forget he was loved ? that he grieved not 

alone ? 
Recording a love that drew sorrow upon 
The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek 
Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak, 
Beat him down, and destroy'd him ? 

News reach'd him indeed, 
Thro' a comrade, who brought him a letter to 

read 
From the lady whom Constance had lived with 

('t was one 
To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been known, 
A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), whirsb 

said 



S18 LUCILE. [Paei JDL 

That Constance, tho' never a murmur betray'd 
What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day,' 
And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. 
It was then he sought death. 



Thus the tale ends. 'T was told 
With such broken, passionate words, as unfold 
In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Thro' each pause 
Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty flaws, 
The rain shook the canvas, unheeded ; aloof, 
And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent- 
roof 
At intervals wirbled. And when all was said, 
The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward hia 

head, 
And fell into a feverish slumber. 

Long while 
Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The 

still smile 
That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face 
And make it like heaven, was iled from its ^lace 
In her eyes, on her lips ; and a deep sadness there 
Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and 

care. 
As low to herself she sigh'd . . . 

' Hath it, Eugene, 

* Been so long, then, the struggle ? . . . and yet, all 

in vain ! 
< Nay, not all in vain I Shall the world gain a 

man, 
' And yet Heaven lose a soul ? Have I done all 1 

can? 
' Soul to soul, did he say ? Soul to soul, be it so I 

* And then — soul of mine, whither V whither ? ' 

xvin. 

Large, slow, 
Silent tears in those deep eyes asck^.nded, and felL 



Canto VI.] LUCILB. 319 

//ere, at least, I have fail'd not' ... she; mused 

. . . ' this is well 1 ' 
She drew from her bosom two letters. 

In one, 
A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son, 
Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal. 
' The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile 1 

* The hope of a home saved by thee — of a heart 

* Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as 

thou art !) 

* Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save I . . 

save my son ! 

* And if not ' . . . the letter went brokenly on, 
' Heaven help us I ' 

Then follow'd, from Alfred, a few 
Blotted heart-broken pages. He mournfully drew, 
With pathos, the picture of that earnest youth, 
So unlike his own : how in beauty and truth 
He had nurtured that nature, so simple and brave : 
And how he had striven his son's youth to save 
From the errors so sadly redeem'd in his own. 
And so deeply repented : how thus, in that son, 
In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had 

seem'd 
To be bless'd by a pledge that the past was re- 
deem'd, 
And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak 
Of- the boy's baffled love; in which fate seem'd to 

break 
Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain, 
And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back 

again 
The hopes of the future. To sue for consent 
Pride forbade : and the hope his old foe might 

relent 
Experience rejected . . . ' My life for the boy's ! ' 
(He exclaim'd) ; ' for I die with my son, if he dies ! 

* Lucile ! Heaven bless you for all you have done 1 

* Save him, save him, Lucile ! save my son ! save 

my son I ' 



320 LUCiLE. [Fart n. 



* Ay ! * murmur'd the Soeur SerapMne . . . ' heart 

to heart I 

* There, at least, T have fall'd not 1 Fulfill'd Is my 

part? 

* Accomplish'd my mission ? One act crowns the 

whole. 

* Do I linger ? Nay, be it so, then ! . . . Soul to 

soul 1 ' 
She knelt down, and pray'd. Still the boy slum- 

ber'd on. 
Dawn broke. The pale nun from the bedside wa» 

j^one. 



Meanwhile, 'mid his aides-de-camp, busily bent 
O'er the daily reports, in his well-order'd tent 
There sits a French General — bronzed by tb« 

sun 
And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One 
Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee 
Had strangely and rapidly risen to be 
Tlie idol and darling, the dream and the star 
Of the younger French chivalry ; daring in war, 
And wary in council. He enter'd, indeed. 
Late in life (and discarding his Bourbonite creed) 
The Army of France : and had risen, in part 
From a singular aptitude proved for the art 
Of that wild desert warfare of ambush, surprise. 
And stratagem, which to the French camp supplies 
Its subtlest intelligence ; partly from chance ; 
Partly, too, from a name and position which 

France 
"Was proud to put forward ; but mainly, in fact, 
From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, 
In frequent emergencies startlingly shown. 
To the rank which he now held, — intrepidly won 
With many a wound, treneh'd in many a scar, 
From fierce Milianah and Sldi-Sakhdar. 



Canto VI.] lucile. 321 



All within, and without, that warm tent seems to 

bear 
Smiling token of provident order and care. 
All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands 
In groups round the music of mirth-breathing 

bands. 
Jn and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro, 
TJie messengers come, and the messengers go, 
Upon missions of mercy, or errands of toil : 
To report how the sapper contends with the soil 
In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring 
In the hospital tent : and, combining, comparing. 
Constructing, within moves the brain of one man, 
Moving all. 

He is bending his brow o'er some plan 
For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane. 
The officer standing beside him is fain 
To refer to the angel solicitous cares 
Of the Sisters of Charity : one he declares 
To be known thro' the camp as a seraph of grace : 
He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each 

place 
Where suffering is seen, silent, active — the 

Soeur . . . 
Soeur . . . how do they call her ? 

* Ay, truly, of her 

* i have heard much,' the General, musing, replies ; 
' And we owe her already (unless rumour lies) 

* The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean . . . 
' Ay, how do they call her ? . . . the Soeur — 

Seraphine 
' (Is it not so ?). 1 rarely forget names once 
heard.' 

' Yes ; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant.' 

' On my word, 
21 



322 LTQCILE. [Part u, 

* I have much wish'd to see her. I fancy I trace, 

* In some facts traced to her, something more than 

the grace 

* Of an angel : I mean an acute human mind, 

* Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, 

' And, if possible, let her come to me. We shall, 

* 1 think, aid each other.' 

* Ow^, mon General ; 

* I believe she has lately obtain'd the permission 

* To tend some sick man in the Second Division 

* Of our Ally : they say a relation.' 

* Ay, so ? 

* A relation ? * 

' 'T is said so.' 

' The name do you know ? 

* iVbn, mon GeneraU 

While they spoke yet there weot 
A munnur and stir round the door of the tent. 
' A Sister of Charity craves, in a case 
' Of urgent and serious importance, the grace 
' Of brief private speech with the General there. 

* Will the General speak with her ? ' 

' Bid her declare 

* Her mission.' 

She will not. She craves to be seen 
And be heard. 

Well, her name then. 

The ScEur Scraphine. 
The Soeur Serapldne I Strange I On parle du 

soleil, 
Et en void les rayons ! Depeche, Colonel I 
Clear the tent. She may enter. 



The tent has been clear'*!. 
The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, 
A sable long silver'd : and press'd down his brow 
On his hand, heavily. All his countenance, now 
Unwitness'd, at cnce fell dejected, and dreary, 



Canto ^1 J LTJCILE. 323 

As a curtain let fall by a hand that *s gi'own weary, 
Into puckers and folds. From his lips, unrepress'd, 
Steals th' impatient quick sigh, which reveals in 

man's breast 
A conflict conceal'd, and experience at strife 
With itself, — the vex'd heai't's passing protest on 

life. 
lie turn'd to his papers. He heard the light treai 
Of a faint foot behind him : and, lifting his head. 
Said, ' Sit, Holy Sister ! your worth is well known 
' To the hearts of our soldiers ; nor less to my own. 
' I have much wish'd to see you. I owe you some 

thanks : 
' In the name of all those you have saved to our 

ranks 
' I record them. Sit 1 Now then, your mission ? * 

The nun 
Paused silent. Tlie General eyed her anon 
More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A 

change 
Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd . . • 

' Strange ! strange ! 
* Any face should so strongly remind me of her ! 
' Fool ! again the delirium, the dream ! does it stir ? 
' Does it move as of old ? Psha 1 

'Sit, Sister! I wall 
' Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. State 
' The cause why you seek me ? ' 

' The cause ? ay, the cause !^ 
She vaguely repeated. Then, after a pause, — 
As one who, awaked unawares, would put back 
The sleep that forever returns in the track 
Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not 

the less 
Settle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath theii 

stress. 
Like doves to a penthouse, — a movement she made, 
Less toward him than away from herself; droop'd 

her head 



S24 LUCILE. [Pari U 

And folded her haiidg on her bosom : long, spare, 
Fatigued, mournful hands 1 Not a stream of stray 

hair 
Escaped the pale bands ; scarce more pale than the 

face 
Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white 

case. 
She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague 

awe 
O'er his sense, such as ghosts cast. 

' Eugene de Luvois, 

* The cause which recalls me again to your side, 

* Is a promise that rests unfulfill'd,' she replied. 

* I come to fulfil it.' 

He sprang from the place 
Where he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er 

his face ; 
And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground 
That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the 

sound 
Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight 
Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 

'light 
Unawares), crept towards her; one heavy hand 

laid 
On her shoulder in silence ; bent o'er her his head, 
Search'd her face, with a long look of troubled ap- 
peal 
Against doubt ; stagger'd backward, and murmur'd 
. . . ' Lucile ! 

* Thus we meet then ? . . . here ! . . . thus ! ' 

' Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, 

* As I pledged you my word that we should meet 

again. 
Dead, . . .' she murmur'd, * long dead ! all that 
lived in our lives — 

* Thine and mine — saviiig that which ev'n life's 

self survives, 
The soul ! 'T is my soul seeks thine own. What 
may reach 



Canto VI.] lucile. 320 

* From my life to tliy life (so wide each from each !) 
' Save the soul to the soul ? To thy soul I would 

speak. 
' May I do so ? \ 

He said (work'd and white was his cheek 
As he raised it), ' Speak to me !' 

Deep, tender, serene, 
And sad was the gaze which the Soeur Seraphine 
Held on him. She spoke. 



As some minstrel may fling, 
Preluding the music yet mute in each string, 
A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole, 
Seeking which note most fitly may first move tho 

soul ; 
And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, 
Move pathetic in numbers remote ; — even so 
The voice which was moving the heart of that man 
Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began, 
Far away in the pathos remote of the past ; 
Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, 
Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that 

were gone 
Unaccomplish'd from life. 

He was mute. 



She went oil 
And still further down the dim past did she lead 
Each yielding remembrance, far, far off, to feed 
*Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hrpe. 
And the valleys of boyhood, the fresh-flower'd slope 
Of life's dawning land I 

'T is the heart of a boy, 
With its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy 1 
The unproved desire — the unaim'd aspiration — 
The deep, conscious life that forestalls consuDMna- 
tion : 



326 LUCILE. LP ART II 

With ever a flitting delight — one arm's length 
In advance of th' august inward impulse. 

The strength 
Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand 
With the birth of the palm-tree ! Let ages expand 
The glorious creature 1 The ages lie shut 
(Safe, see !) in the seed, at Time's signal to put 
Forth their beauty and power, leaf by leaf, layer 

on layer, 
Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in 

blue air. 
So the palm in the palm-seed 1 so, slowly — so, 

wrought 
Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought 

by thought, 
Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the 

boy. 
Ah, but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy 1 
Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance in- 
tervene 1 
While the leaf's in the bud, while the stem 's in the 

green, 
A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze 

breaks the bough, 
Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, 

may grow 
To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest. 
And take both the bird and the breeze to its 

breast. 
Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed ? 
Save the man in the boy ? in the thought save the 

deed? 
Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it 

canl 
Save the seed from the north wind. So let the 

grown man 
i'ace out fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. 

He was dumb. 
She went one step furthei. 



CAHTO VI.] LUCILE. 327 



Lo I manhood is come. 
And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the 

tree, 
And the whirlwind comes after. Now prove we 

and see : 
What shade from the leaf? what support from the 

branch ? 
Spreads the leaf broad and fair ? holds the bough 

strong and stanch ? 
There, he saw himself — dark, as he stood on thai 

night, 
The last when they met and they parted : a sight 
For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice I 
An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice ; 
It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. 

Then he said 
(Never looking at her, never lifting his head, 
As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd 
Those fragments), 'It was not a love, 'twas a 

world, 

* 'T was a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile 1 * 

XXVI. 

She went on, 

* So be it 1 Perish Babel, arise Babylon 1 

* From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall last, 

* And to build up the future Heaven shatters the 

past.' 

* Ay,* he moodily murmur'd, ' and who cares to 

scan 

* The heart's perish'd world, if the world gains a 

man? 

* From the past to the present, tho' late, I appeal ; 

* To the nun Seraphine, from the woman Lucile 1 * 



828 irciLE, IPakt U 



Lucile ! . . . the old name — the old self I silenced 

long: 
Heard once more ! felt once more ! 

As some soul to the throng 
Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized 
By death to a new name and nature — surprised 
^Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintly, and far, 
Some voice from tlie earth, left below a dim star. 
Calling to her forlornly ; and (sadd'ning the psalms 
Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms !) 
The name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on eartli 
Sigh'd above some lone grave in the land of her 

birth ; — 
So that one word . . . Lucile I . . . stirr'd the Soeur 

Seraphine, 
For a moment. Anon she resumed her serene 
And concentrated calm. 

* Let the Nun, then, retrace 

* The life of the soldier 1 ' . . . she said, with a face 
That glow'd, gladdening her words. 

' To the Present I come 

* Leave the Past ! ' 

There her voice rose, and seem'd as when some 
Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the praise 
Of the hero whose brows she is crowning with bays. 
Step by step did she follow his path from the place 
Where their two paths diverged. Year by year 

did she trace 
(Familiar with all) his, the soldier's, existence. 
Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance ; 
Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours : 
And the same sentinels that ascend the same towera 
And report the same foes, the same fears, the same 

strife. 
Waged alike to the limits of each human life. 
She went on to speak of the lone moody lord. 
Shut up in his lone moody halls : every word 



Canto VI j LUCIle. 829 

Held the weight of a tear : she recordod the good 

He had patiently wrought thro' a whole neighbour- 
hood ; 

And the blessing that lived on the lips of the poor, 

By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's 
door. 

There she paused : and her accents seem'd dipp'd 
in the hue 

Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she drew 

Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's 
wages, 

Yet working love's work ; reading backwards life's 
pages 

For penance ; and stubbornly, many a time, 

Both missing the moral, and marring the rhyme. 

Then she spoke of the soldier ! . . . the man's work 
and fame. 

The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim 1 

Life's inward approval I 



Her voice reach'd his heart, 
And sank lower. She spoke of herself : how, apart 
And unseen, — far away, — she had watch'd, year 

by year. 
With how many a blessing, how many a tear. 
And how many a prayer, every stage in the strife : 
Guess'd the thought in the deed : traced the love 

in the life : 
Bless'd the man in the man's work ! 

' Tliy work ... oh not mine ! 
. he exclaim'd ... * all tho 
worth of it thine, 
* If worth there be in it 1 * 

Her answer convey'd 
His reward, and her own : joy that cannot be said 
Alone by the voice . . . eyes — face — spoke silently : 
All the woman, one grateful emotion 1 

And she 



3S0 LUCILR. [Part U. 

A poor Sister of Charity ! hers a life spent 
In one silent effort for others ! . . . 

She bent 
Her divine face above him, and fill'd up his heart 
With the look that glow'd from it. 

Then slow, with sofl art, 
Fix'd her aim, and moved to it 



He, the soldier humane, 
He, the hero ; whose heart hid in glory the pain 
Of a youth disappointed; whose life had made 

known 
The value of man's hfe I . . . that youth over 

thrown 
And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth 
In another ? his own life of strenuous truth 
Accomplish'd in act, had it taught him no care 
For the life of another ? ... oh no ! everywhere 
In the camp, which she moved thro', she came faci 

to face 
With some noble token, some generous trace 
Of his active humanity . . . 

* Well,' he replied, 

* If it be so ? ' 

' I come from the solemr bedside 

* Of a man that is dying,' she said. * While we 

speak, 

* A life is in jeopardy.* 

* Quick then 1 you seek 

* Aid, or medicine, or what ? ' 

' *T is not needed,' she said, 

* Medicine ? yes, for the mind 1 'T is a heart that 

needs aid ! 

* You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) can 

* Save the life of this man. Will you save it ? ' 

* What man ? 

* How ? . . where V . . . can you ask ? ' 

She went rapidly on 



Gajhto VI.] LUCJLE. 83 J 

To her object m brief, vivid words. . . . The youug 

son 
Of Matilda and Alfred — the boy lying there 
Half a mile from that tent door — the father's 

despair, 
The mother's deep anguish — the pride of the boy 
in the father — the father's one hope and one joy 
In the son : — the son now — wounded, dying ! Sha 

told 
Of the father's stern struggle with life : the boy's 

bold 
Pure, and beautiful nature : the fair life before hira 
If that life were but spared . . . yet a word might 

restore him I 
The boy's broken love for the niece of Eugene : 
Its pathos : the girl's love for him : how, lialf slain 
In his tent she had found him ; won from him the 

tale ; 
Sought to nurse back his life ; found her efforts stiU 

fail; 
Beaten back by a love that was stronfjer than 

life ; 
Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strife 
Wherein England and France in their best blood, 

at last, 
Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of the 

past, 
4nd shall nations be nobler than men ? Ai-e not 

great 
Men the models of nations ? For what is a state 
But the many's confused imitation of one ? 
Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the son 
Of his ally seek vengeance, destroying perchance 
An innocent life,— here, when England and France 
Have forgiven the sins of their fathers of yore. 
And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent 

gore ? ' 
She went on to tell how the boy had clung still 
To life, for the sake of life's uses, until 



332 LUCILE. [Part II. 

From his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, 

stricken down 
By the news that the heart of Constknce, like his 

own, 
Was breaking beneath . . . 

But there ' Hold ! ' he exelaim'd, 
Interrupting, ' forbear 1 * .... his whole face was 

inflamed 
With the heart's swarthy thunder, which yet, while 

she spoke, 
Ilad been gathering silent — at last the storm broke 
In grief or in wratib. ... 

' 'T is to him, then,' he cried, . . . 
Checking suddenly short the tumultuous stride, 

* That I owe these late greetings — for him you are 

here — 

* For his sake you seek me — for him, it is clear, 

* You have deign'd at the last to bethink you again 

* Of this long forgotten existence 1 * 

' Eugene 1 ' 
*Ha I fool that I was ! ' . . . he went on, . . . ' and 
just now 

* While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to 

grow 

* Almost boyish again, almost sure of one friend ! 

* Yet this was the meaning of all : — this the end ! 

* Be it so ! There 's a sort of slow justice (admit !) 

* In this — that the word that man's finger hath 

writ 

* In fire on my heart, I return him at last. 

* Let him learn that word — Never 1 ' 

' Ah, still to the past 

* Must the present be vassal ? * she said. * In the 

hour 
We last parted I urged you to put forth the power 
Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life. 
Yours, the promise to strive : mine, — to watch 

o'er the strife. 
' I foresaw you would conquer ; you have conquer'd 

much. 



Canto YL.] lucile. 333 

' Mucli, indeed, that is noble ! 1 hail it as such, 
' And am here to record and applaud it. I saw 
' Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, 
' One peril — one point where I fcar'd you would 
fail 

* To subdue that worst foe which a man can as- 

sail, — 

* Himself : and I promised that, if I should see 

* My champion once falter, or bend the brave knee, 

* That moment would bring me again to his side. 

* That moment is come ! for that peril was pride, 
♦And you falter. I plead for yourself, and one 

other, 
' For that gentle child without father or mother 

* To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of 

France, 

* For your own nobler nature — and plead for 

Constance ! ' 
At the sound of that name he averted his head. 

* Constance ! . . . . Ay, she enter'd my lone life,* 

(he said) 

* When its sun was long set ; and hung over its 

night 

* Her own starry childhood. I have but that light, 
' In the midst of much darkness ! Who names me 

but she 

* With titles of love ? and what rests there for me 

* In the silence of age save the voice of that 

child ? 

* The child of my own better life, undefiled ! 

* My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts ! ' 

' Say,' 
Said Lucile, solemnly — ' are you able to lay 
' Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man 

* And swear that, whatever may happen, you can 

* Feel assured for the life you thus cherish ? ' 

' How so ^ 
She look'd up. ' If the boy sJiould die thus V ' 

'Yes, I know 



331 LUCILE. [Pajii n 

' What your look would imply . . . this sleek 
stranger forsooth I 

* Because on his cheek was the red rose of youth 
'.rhe heart of my niece must break for it ! ' 

She cried, 

* Nay, but hear me yet further 1 ' 

With slow heavy stride, 
Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent, 
He was muttering low to himself as he went. 

* Ay, these young things lie safe in our heart just 

so long 

* As their wings are in growing ; and when these 

are strong 

* They break it, and farewell ! the bird flies ! ' . . . 

The nun 
Laid her hand on the soldier, and murmur'd, ' The 
sun 

* Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus ! oh, 

yet 

* Let this day upon one final victory set, 

* And complete a life's conquest ! ' 

Pie said, ' Understand 1 

* If Constknce wed the son of this man, by whose 

hand 

* My heart hath been robb'd, she is lost to my life 1 

' Can her home be my home ? Can I claim in the 
wife 

* Of that man's son the child of my age ? At her 

side 

* Shall he stand on my hearth ? Shall I sue to the 

bride 

* Of . . . enough ! 

' Ah, and you immemorial halls 

* Of my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet 

falls 

* On my fancy, and fuses hope, memory, past, 

' Present, — all, in one silence I old trees to the 
blast 
Of the North Sea repeating the tale of old days, 



■ Canto VI.] LUcrLE. 335 

* Never more, never more in the wild bosky ways 

' Shall I hear thro' your umbrage ancestral the 
wind 

* Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the deep mind 
' Of my boyhood, with whispers from out the far 

years 
' Of love, fame, the raptures life cools down with 

tears 1 
' Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave alone 
' Kouse your echoes ? ' 

' O think not,' she said, ' of the son 
Of the man whom unjustly you hate ! only think 
' Of this young human creature, that cries from the 

brink 
' Of a grave to your mercy ! 

' Recall your own worda 
^ (Words my memory mournfully ever records !) 

* How with love may be wreck'd a whole life ! then, 

Eugene, 

* Look with me (still those words in our ears !) once 

again 

* At this young soldier sinking from life here — - 

dragg'd down 

* By the weight of the love in his heart: no re- 

nown, 
' No fame comforts him ! nations shout not above 
' The lone grave down to which he is bearing the 

love 
' Which life has rejected I Will you stand apart ? 
' You, with such a love's memory deep in your 

heart 1 

* You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led 

on 
' Thro' the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it 
hath won, 

* By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth, 

* Such as lies at your door now : who have but, in 

truth, 

* Tc stretcli forth a hand, to speak only one word, 



336 LUCILE. fPART n 

< And by that word you rescue a life ! ' 

He was stirr'd. 

Still he sought to put from him the cup ; bow'd hia 
face 

On his hand ; and anon, as tho' wishing to chase 

With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside, 

He sprang up, brush'd past her, and bitterly cried 

' No ! — Constance a Vargi-ave ! — I cannot con- 
sent ! ' 

Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine. 

The low tent, 

In her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf 'd by the 
height 

From which those imperial eyes pour'd the light 

Of their deep silent sadness upon him. 

No wonder 

He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under 

The compulsion of that grave regard ! For between 

The Due de Luvoia and the Soeur Seraphine 

At that moment there rose all the height of one 
soul 

O'er another ; she look'd down on him from the 
whole 

Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and 
days. 

There were long months and years in that heart- 
searching gaze ; 

A.nd her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos 
thrill'd thro' 

And transfix'd him. 

'Eugene de Luvois, but for you, 

* I might have been now — not this wandering nun, 

* But a mother, a wife — pleading, not for the son 

* Of another, but blessing some child of my own, 

' His, — the man's that I once loved ! . . . Hush , 
that which is done 

* I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That 'a 

best 

* "Which God sends. 'T was His will : it is mine. 

And the rest 



Canto VL] lucile. S3 7 

* Of that riddle I will not look back to. He reads 

* In your heart — He that judges of all thoughts 

and deeds, 
' With eyes, mine forestall not ! This only I say : 

* You have not the right (read it, you, as you 

may !) 
' To say ..." I am the wrong'd." ' . . . 

' Have I wrong'd thee ? — wrong'd thee ! * 
He falter'd, ' Lucile, ah, Lucile 1 ' 

* Nay, not me,* 
She murmur'd, ' but man ! The lone nun standing 
here 

* Ha3 no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from the 

sphere 

* Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But 

she, 

* The dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is in 

me, 

* Demands from her grave reparation to man, 

* Reparation to God. Heed, O heed, while you 

can 

* This voice from the grave ! ' 

' Hush 1 ' he moan'd, ' I obey 
' The Sceur Seraphine. There, Lucile ! let this 
pay 

* Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead 

on : 
' I follow you, Sceur Seraphine ! ... To the son 
'^ Of Lord Alfred Vargrave . . . and then,' . . . 

As he spoka 
He lifted the tent-door, and down the dun smoke 
Pointed out the dark bastions, with batteries crown'd, 
Of the city beneath them . . . 

' Then, tJiere, underground, 
' And valete et plaudite, soon as may be ! 

* Let the old tree go down to the earth — the old 

tree, 
' With the worm at its heart 1 Lay the axe to the 
root! 

22 



338 LUCILE. [Part II 

Who win miss the old stump, so we save the young 

shoot ? 
A Yarffrave I . . . this pays all ... . Lead on I ... . 
In the seed 
* Save the forest I . . . 

* I follow . . . forth, forth I where you lead.* 



ITie day was declining ; a day sick and damp. 

In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly 

camp 
Of the English. Alone in his dim, spectral tent 
(Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bent 
On the daylight departing, the sick man was sitting 
Upon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely 

flitting, 
Cross'd the silence between him and death, which 

seem'd near. 
— ' Pain o'erreaches itself, so is baulk'd ! else, how 

bear 

* This intense and intolerable solitude, 

* With its eye on my heart and its hand on my 

blood? 

* Pulse by pulse 1 Day goes down : yet she comes 

not again. 

* Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more 

plain, 

* Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange I and scarcely 

feel sad. 
< Oh, to think of Constance thus, and not to go mad I 

* But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to his 

own 

* DuU doings . . .' 

XXXI. 

Between those sick eyes and the sun 
A shadow fell thwart. 



CajTTO VI.] LUCILK. 399 



*T is the pale nun once more ! 
But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the 

door ? 
How oft had he watch'd through the glory and 

gloom 
Of the battle, with long, longing looks that dim 

plume 
Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook 

stoop'd 
To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd I 
How that stern face had haunted and hover'd 

about 
The dreams it still scared ! through what fond fear 

and doubt 
Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero ! (What 's 

like 
A boy's love for some famous man ?) . . . Oh, to 

strike 
A. wild path through the battle, down striking per- 
chance 
Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of 

France, 
And so fall in his glorious regard ! . . . Oft, how 

oft 
Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching 

aloft 
The dim battle that plume dance and dart — never 

seen 
So near till this moment 1 how eager to glean 
Every stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble 

in praise 
Of his hero — each tale of old venturous days 
In the desert ! And now . . . could he speak out 

his heart 
Face to face with that man ere he died ! 



840 LUCILE. [Part U. 



With a start 
The sick soldier sprang up : the blood sprang up in 

him, 
To his throat, and o'erthrew him ; he reel'd back : 

a dim 
Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes ; in his ears rose tho 

din 
And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within, 
Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale 

nun 
(Looking larger than life, where she stood in the 

sun) 
Point to him and murmur, ' Behold 1 ' Then that 

plume 
Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fade oflf in the 

gloom 
Which momently put out the world. 

XXXIV. 

To his side 
Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . 
' Ah 1 * ... he sigh'd, 

* The smooth brow, the fair Vargrave face ! and 

those eyes, 

* All the mother's 1 The old things again I 

' Do not rise, 

* You suffer, young man ? ' 

Thb Bot. 

Su-, I die. 

Thb Duke. 

Not so yonng 
Thb Bot. 
So young ? yes I and yet I have tangled among 



Caoto VI.] LUCILE. 341 

The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of 

mine 
Other lives than mj own. Could my death but 

untwine 
That vext skein . . . but it will not. Yes, Duke, 

young — so young ! 
A.nd I knew you not? yet I have done you a 

wrong 
Irreparable ! . . . late, too late to repair, 
if I knew any means . . . but I know none I ... I 

swear, 
If this broken fraction of time could extend 
Into infinite lives of atonement, no end 
Would seem too remote for my grief (could that 

be!) 
To include it ! Not too late, however, for me 
To entreat : is it too late for you to forgive ? 

The Duke. 

Tour wrong — my forgiveness — explain. 

The Boy. 

Could I Uve i 
Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, 
I falter ! . . . Yes, Duke, your forgiveness I think 
Should free my soul hence. 

Ah 1 you could not surmise 
That a boy's beating heart, burning thoughts, long- 
ing eyes 
Were following you evermore (heeded not !) 
While the battle was flowing between us : aoi 

what 
Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went 
With the wind and the rain, round and round you^ 

blind tent, 
Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain, 
Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain ! 
Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent I Tb« 
waste air 



842 LUCILE. [Part II, 

Grew stern at the gleam which said . . . ' Off I he 

is there ! ' 
I know not what merciful mystery now 
Brings you here, whence the man whom you see 

lying low 
Other footsteps (not those !) must soon bear to the 

grave. 
But death is at hand, and the few words I have 
Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. 

Duke, I swear, 
As I lie here, (Death's angel too close not to 

hear !) 
That I meant not this wrong to you. Due de 

Luvois, 
1 loved your niece — loved ? why, I love her ! I 

saw. 
And, seeing, how could I but love her? I 

seem'd 
Born to love her. Alas, were that all! Had I 

dream'd 
Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now 
Ever fearfully present before me, I vow 
That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the 

tomb 
Into which I descend ... Oh why, whilst there was 

room 
In life left for warning, had no one the heart 
To warn me ? Had any one whisper 'd . . . ' De- 
part 1 ' 
To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then 

to nurse ! 
Had any one hinted ... * Beware of the curse 
* Which is coming 1 * There was not a voice raised 

to tell, 
Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it 

fell. 
And then . . . then the blow fell on loth ! This 'u 

why 
I implore you to pardon that great injury 



Canto VL] LUCILE. 843 

Wrought on her, and, thro* her, wrought on you, 

Heaven knows 
How unwittingly I 

The Duke. 

Ah ! . . and, young soldier, suppose 
That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon ? — 

The Bot. 

Of whom V 
The Duke. 
Of yourself. 

The Boy. 

Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb 
No boyish resentment ; not one lonely thought 
That honours you not. In all this there is naught 
'T is for me to forgive. 

Every glorious act 
Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact. 
To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your 

own. 
And have I not hoarded, to ponder upon, . 
A hundred great acts from your life ? Nay, all 

these. 
Were they so many lying and false witnesses, 
Dees there rest not one voice which was never 

untrue ? 
I believe in Constknce, Duke, as she does in you ! 
In this great world around us, wherever we turn, 
Some grief irremediable we discern : 
And yet — there sits God, calm in Heaven above 1 
Do we trust one whit less in his justice or love ? 
I judge not. 

The Duke. 

Enough 1 Hear at last, then, the truth. 
Your father and I — foes we were in our youth. 



344 LUCILE. ^Part II. 

It matters not why. Yet thus mucli understand : 
The hope of my youth was signed out by his han(L 
I was not of those whom the buffets of fate 
Tame and teach : and my heart buried slain love 

in hate. 
If your own frank young heart, yet ineonscious ol 

all 
Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to 

gall, 
And unable to guess even aught that the furrow 
Across these gray brows hides of sin or of sorrow, 
Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life, 
'T will at least comprehend how intense was the 

strife 
Which is closed in this act of atonement, whereby 
I seek in the son of my youth's enemy 
The friend of my age. Let the present release 
Here acquitted the past 1 In the name of my 

niece. 
Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give, 
Are you great enough, boy, to forgive me, — and 

live ? 

Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy 
Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the boy : 
As when some stormy moon, in a long cloud con- 
fined. 
Struggles outward thro' shadows, the varying wind 
Alternates, and bursts, self-surprised, from hey 

prison. 
So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had 

risen 
To answer the Duke ; but strength fail'd every 

limb; 
A. strange happy feebleness trembled thro' him. 
With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank 
On the breast of the nun, who stood near. 

' Yes, boy 1 thank 
This guardian angel,' the Duke said. 'I — you, 



Canto VI. LUCILE. 345 

• We owe d,Il to her. Crown her work. Live I be 
true 

' To your young life's fair promise, and Hve for her 
sake 1 ' 

' Yes, Duke : I will live. I must live — live to 
make 

' My whole life the answer you claim,' the boy said, 

' For joy does not kill 1 ' 

Back again the faint head 

Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw 

His lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to with- 
draw 

And leave them a moment together. 

He eyed 

Them both with a wistful regard ; turn'd, and 
sigh'd. 

And lifted the tent door, and pass'd from the tent. 



Like a furnace, the fervid, intense Occident 
From its hot seething levels a great glare struck up 
On the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cup 
Some witch watches boiling wild portents arise. 
Monstrous clouds, mass'd, misshapen, and tinged 

with strange dyes, 
Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird 

shapes 
As of snakes, salamanders, efts, lizards, storks, 

apes. 
Chimeras, and hydras : whilst — ever the same — 
in the midst of all these (creatures fused by his 

flame. 
And changed by his influence !), changeless, as 

when. 
Ere he lit down to death generations of men, 
O'er that crude and ungainly creation, which 

there 
AVith wild shapes this cloud-world seem'd to mimic 

in air. 



34G LUCILE. [Part IL 

The eye of Heaven's all-judging witness, he shone, 
And shall shine on the ages we reach not — the 
Bunl 



Nature posted her parable thus in the skies, 

And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapourfl 

arise 
And fall, pass and change, group themselves and 

revolve 
Round the great central life, which is Love : these 

dissolve 
And resume themselves, here assume beauty, there 

terror, 
And the phantasmagoria of infinite error, 
And eildless complexity, lasts but a while ; 
Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile 
Of God on the soul, in the deep heart of Heaven 
Lives changeless, unchanged; and our morning 

and even 
Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's. 

XXXVII. 

While he yet 
Watch'd the skies, with this thought in his heart ; 

while he set 
Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind, 
Summ'd it up, search'd it out, proved it vapour 

and wind. 
And embraced the new life which that hour had 

reveal'd, — 
Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and con- 

ceal'd ; 
Lujile left the tent and stood by him. 

Her tread 
Aroused him ; and, turning towards her, he said : 

* O Sceur Seraphine, are you happy '? ' 

* Eugene, 

* What is happier than to have hoped not in vain ? ' 



Oanto VI.] LUCILE. 347 

She answer'd, — * And you ? * 

♦Yes.' 

♦ You do not repent ? 
«No.' 

' Thank Heaven I * she murmur'd. He musingly 
bent 
His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart 
Where he stood, sigh'd, as tho' to his innermost 
heart, 

* O blessed are they, amongst whom I was not, 

* Whose morning unclouded, without stain or spot, 

* Predicts a pure evening ; who, sun-like, in light 
*Have traversed, unsullied, the world, and set 

bright 1 * 

But she in response, ' Mark yon ship far away, 

* Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day, 

' With all its hush'd thunders shut up ! Would 
you know 

* A thought which came to me a few days ago, 

* Whilst watching those ships ? . . . When the 

great Ship of Life, 
' Surviving, though shattered, the tumult and strife 

* Of earth's angry element, — masts broken short, 

* Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten — drives safe 

into port, 

* When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand, 

* Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand ; 

* When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled roar, 

* The mariner turns to his rest evermore ; 

* What will then be the answer the helmsman 

must give ? 

* Will it be ..." Lo our log-book 1 Thus once 

did we live 

* In the zones of the South ; thus we traversed the 

seas 

* Of the Orient ; there dwelt in the Hesperides : 

* Thence folio w'd the west wind ; here eastward 

wt turn'd : 



848 LUCILE. [Part II. 

* The stars fail'd us there ; just here land we dis 

cern'd 
On our lee ; there the storm overtook us at last ; 
That day went the bowsprit, the next day the 

mast; 

* There the mermen came round us, and there W3 

saw bask 
' A syren ? " The Captain of Port will he ask 
' Any one of such questions ? I cannot think so ! 

* But ... " What is the last Bill of Health you 

can show ? " 
' Not — How fared the soul through the trials she 

pass'd ? 
*But — What is the state of that soul at the last ? * 

' May it be so 1 ' he sigh'd. * There I the sun 

drops, behold 1 ' 
And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and gold 
In the west had turn'd ashen, save one fading strip 
Of light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether lip 
Of a long reef of cloud ; and o'er sullen ravines 
And ridges the raw damps were hanging white 

screens 
Of melancholy mist. 

' Nunc dimittis ! * she said. 
'■ O God of the living ! whilst yet 'mid the dead 
'" And the dying we stand here alive, and thy days 
' Returning, admit space for prayer and for praise, 

* In both these confii-m us ! 

' The helmsman, Eugene, 
♦Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. 
Again 

* We two part : each to work out Heaven's will : 

you, I trust, 

* In the world's ample witness ; and I, as I must, 
*In secret and silence : you, love, fame, await; 

Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at one gate 
When all 's over. The ways they are many and 
wide, 



Canto VI. J luclle. 849 

*And seldom are two ways the same. Side by 

side 

* May we stand at the same little door when all 'a 

done ! 

* The ways they are many, the end it is one. 

* He that knocketh shall enter : who asks shall 

obtain : 

*Aiiti who seeketh, he findeth. Kemember, Eu- 
gene ! ' 

She turn'd to depart. 

' Whither ? whither ?*.... he saiiL 

She otretch'd forth her hand where, already out- 
spread 

On the darken'd horizon, remotely they saw 

The French camp-fires kindling. 

' O Due de Luvois, 

^ See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart 

* Made as one man's by one hope I That hope 't ia 

your part 

* To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse : 
Mine, through suffering to soothe, and throuiih 

sickness to nurse. 

* I go to my work : you to yours.* 

xxxyiii. 

Whilst she spoke. 
On the wide wasting evening there distantly bvoke 
The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, 
From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun. 

* Our chasseurs are at it ! ' he mutter'd. 

She turned, 
Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight. 

He faintly discem'd 
Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky 
Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists : by 

and by 
The vapours closed round, and he saw her no 
more. 



350 LUCILE. [Past IL 



Nor eliall we. For her mission, accomplish'd, is 

o'er. 
The mission of genius on earth ! To uplift, 
Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift. 
The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavour 
To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever. 
The mission of genius : to watch, and to wait, 
To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. 
The mission of woman on earth I to give birth 
To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth. 
The mission of woman : permitted to bruise 
The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse. 
Through the sorrow and sin of earth's registered 

curse. 
The blessing wliich mitigates all : born to nurse, 
And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal 
The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile. 



A power hid in pathos : a fire veil'd in cloud : 
Yet still burning outward: a branch which, the' 

bow'd 
By the bird in its passage, springs upward again : 
Thro' all symbols I search for her sweetness — in 

vain ! 
Judge her love by her life. For our life is but 

love 
[n act. Pure was hers : and the dear God above, 
Who knows what His creatures have need of for 

life. 
And whose love includes all loves, thro' mucb 

patient strife 
Led her soul into peace. Love, tho' love may be 

given 
In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven 
She saw dawn clear and clearer, as life's troubled 

dream 



Canto VI.] tuClLE. «51 

Wore away; and love sigh'd Into rest, like a 

stream 
That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the 

shore 
Of the great sea which hushes it up evermore 
With its little wild wailing. No stream from its 

source 
Flow s .Eward, how lonely soever its course, 
But what some land is gladden'd. No star ever 

rose 
And set, without influence somewhere. Who 

knows 
What earth needs from earth's lowest creature ? 

No life _ 
Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife 
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. 
The spirits of just men made perfect on high. 
The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne 
And gaze into the Face that makes glorious their 

own. 
Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest 

sorrow. 
Honest work for the dd^ , bonest hope for the mor- 
row, 
Are these worth nothing more than the hand they 

make weary, 
The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave 

dreary ? 
Hush ! the sevenfold heavens to the voice of tha 

Spirit 
Echo : He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit 



The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog ; 

The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chain'd dog. 

The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All with- 
out, 

War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and 
doubt ; 



852 LUCiLE. [Paet n. 

All witliin, light, warmth, calm I 

In the twilight, longwhile 
Eugene de Luvois with a deep thoughtful smile 
Linger'd, looking, and listening, lone by the tent. 
At last he withc&ew, and night closed as he wenL 



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